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<=> 















VIOLET; 


THE TIMES WE LIVE IN. 

Hiwuet C&idzitA’(W8£fte*4c 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
„ 1858 . 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by 
JAMES PAUL, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Eastern 
District of Pennsylvania. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Yiolet was to have been sent into the world to meet her 
fate without an Introduction. But it occurred to a friend 
— the scene being laid in Philadelphia — that the reader 
might possibly be disposed to fancy the characters as real 
as the follies of The Times We Live In. 

The Author takes this opportunity to assure the public that 
personalities are entirely at variance with the views intended 
to be inculcated in the work, and that the characters are 
altogether myths , pen and ink men and women, who die 
with The Times We Live In, as they were created to illus- 
trate the follies or virtues of the same. 





















VIOLET. 


CHAPTER I. 

The day had been disagreeable and drizzly, and the 
storm, steadily increasing since sundown, seemed now at 
its height; the wind blew from every point of the 
compass at the same time, and the rain fell in tor- 
rents: — a driving pelting rain, — such as the blind man 
supposed it, when, taking shelter under the lee of a 
house, — the spout from the roof conducting the foam- 
ing water upon the unfortunate’s head, — he exclaimed, 
with ludicrous resignation, “Well, sure enough, it never 
rains hut it pours.” 

But with her chair rolled up to the table, under the 
drop-light, and deep in the last German novel, Mrs. Irving 
did not hear the rain pattering against the closed shut- 
ters, or the wind shrieking and moaning like a legion of 
Banshees around the house. Cosily nestled among the 
cushions on the sofa, near the glass doors leading into the 
conservatory, Violet was as earnestly engaged in build- 
ing castles in the air, — a favorite amusement of hers. 

Crushed into the low, wide, elaborately carved arm- 
chair, Mrs. Irving seems an enormous woman: hoops 
2 5 


6 


VIOLET. 


and flounces: her figure proper is almost as slight and 
girlish as Violet’s. Her luxuriant brown hair a marvel , 
her teeth splendid , and her bloom , as undying as the 
roses of York and Lancaster, are disclaimers of age. 

There can be no question of Violet’s : the dew is yet 
upon the flower; the delicately rounded cheek attests 
her juvenility ; her very attitude, as she lies there in the 
warm glow of crimson velvet, her cheek resting childlike 
on her arm — white as a snow-drift — shading her eyes 
from the light with the dearest little dimpled hand all in 
a glitter with diamond rings, smiling to herself as she 
spins Hope’s bright tissue, which, according to Moore, — 
“Like the web in the leaves the spider weaves, though 
often broke in the breeze, is spun again.” Ay, again 
and again each human heart can testify. 

The State-house clock struck ten; ten chimed the 
little cupid wreathed with flowers on the rosewood 
cabinet. 

“So late!” exclaimed Violet, in a tone of surprise; 
and, consulting her miniature watch, added, with a very 
near approach to a sigh, “We shall have no visitors to- 
night.” 

“Patent-leather and dress coats were not made for 
this weather,” responded Mrs. Irving, her eyes on her 
book; “a cigar doubtless has consoled your admirers for 
the loss of your society.” 

“Sensible young men,” replied Violet, trying to look 
grave, a comic little smile flickering round her lips; 
“they would not look fit to be seen on a night like this, 
with the curl blown out of their hair and the die washed 
from the killing moustache!” 

Absorbed in her romance, Mrs. Irving, who indeed 
had heard only the last word of the sentence, read on. 


VIOLET. 


7 


With an arch glance at the preoccupied, Violet went to 
the harp and played 

“0 Willie, we have missed you, dear;” 

Singing, mischievous girl, as if improvising the tender 
ballad. Mrs. Irving did not frown ; it was not her style ; 
but, laying aside her book, remarked, rather petulantly 
for her, — “I can’t see what the girls find in Willie Ash- 
ton to rave about.” 

“Can’t you, grandmamma?” asked Violet with pro- 
voking na'ivetS , bending over the harp and smiling up in 
Mrs. Irving’s face. “Why, isn’t he the most aristocratic- 
looking young man in Philadelphia? Hasn’t he the 
dearest little feet? Doesn’t he sing divinely, and waltz 
like ” 

“Like a dancing-master,” suggested the grandmother. 

“Like an angel, grandmamma.” 

“An extraordinary accomplishment for an angel, dear !” 

“Men-angels being wingless, waltz,” persisted Violet, 
laughing. 

“And smoke, and play cards, and get tipsy,” was the 
grandmother’s sarcastic addenda. But conveniently 
deaf, Violet Tvent on with the enumeration of angelic 
perfections. 

“No one leads the German so well as Willie; we 
can’t get on in the lancers without him; and then the 
darling has such glorious eyes, blue as the summer sky !” 

“That say nothing ,” retorted Mrs. Irving. “One 
might as well attempt to read his thoughts, if he has any, 
in his shining boot.” 

“ Treason !” cried Violet ; and, gayly running up to her 
grandmother, stopped her with a kiss. 

“Some one, Harry I suspect, (and the smile changed 


8 


VIOLET. 


to a little pout,) lias prejudiced you against poor Willie, 

“You are mistaken, dear; Yane has never spoken to 
me of him : my opinion of Willie is based upon what I 
have myself observed. Indolent, conceited, selfish, 
he possesses neither depth of feeling nor stability of 
character. Violet, beware you rue not your present folly, 
and, when too late, weep hitter tears over the infatua- 
tion which leads you to reject Harry Yane and flirt as you 
are doing (for it can only be a flirtation) with an idle 
dissipated hoy!” 

Violet was not pleased with the turn the conversation 
had taken; opening very wide her large dark eyes, 
fringed with long lashes, she exclaimed, — “ Grandmamma 
turned Cupid’s advocate ! You amaze me !” 

Mrs. Irving did not smile ; her face was as serious as 
the tone in which she said, — motioning the laughing girl 
to a low, lounging chair beside her, — 

“Sit down and listen to the end of one flirtation. I 
had a friend very like you, Violet, whose coquetry 
destroyed her own happiness and broke the noblest, 
kindest heart that ever beat in man’s breast; but, you 
shall hear.” 

Cold and imperturbable, Mrs. Irving’s agitation sur- 
prised and sobered Violet; her grandmother seldom 
alluded to her past life, and, ignorant of her antecedents, 
Violet could not help suspecting the sad experience, pur- 
porting to be that of another, was her own; and vei*y 
glad was Violet of the hint; it explained much that had 
puzzled her; she had found many contradictions difficult 
to reconcile; and it was a great relief to the affectionate 
girl to discover that what had seemed hardness of heart 
was, in truth, the cicatrix, proving the cruel, cruel wound 


VIOLET. 


9 


which that heart had suffered. So almost impossible is 
it for the nearest and dearest to know each other ! 

In the freshness of early girlhood, — the playfulness of 
a child, and earnest feeling of the woman, — her face sud- 
denly lighting up with gay fancies, and the shadow of 
tenderer feelings at times paling the delicately rounded 
cheek and veiling the brilliancy of her full dark eye, 
Violet was a fascinating creature; and although she 
did talk nonsense sometimes, as girls will, and older 
people too, when the fit is upon them, she was a thinker , 
and a young lady of pretty decided traits of character. 

High-toned and truthful, hers was one of those happy 
natures who pass through life under the charming illu- 
sion that all the world is as kind and honest as them- 
selves. Loving devotedly the only parent, indeed the 
sole relative she had ever known, who, youthful in tastes 
and pursuits, was more like an elder sister than a grand- 
mother, the young enthusiast had resisted every at- 
tempt to drill her into a woman of the world; the affec- 
tionate heart refused to be narrowed down to cold con- 
ventionalism. 

Did you ever happen to see, in some retired country 
nook, a barrel sunk in a natural spring, and marked the 
water gurgling up clear and cool, and flowing out — a tiny 
streamlet sparkling in the green moss around, and me- 
andering away through sunlight and through shade ? 

And to the grandmother there was a time when her 
w'Srld-incrusted heart throbbed with impulses as high and 
generous: — a sweet fountain turned to bitterness ! Was 
there none among her numerous flatterers and friends, 
like the Prophet of old, to cast in a branch of the blessed 
healing tree ? No one to speak to the poor Annie of 
duty, of heaven, of her dead mother ? Yes ; a gentle, 
2 * 


10 


VIOLET. 


loving creature, when the other girls at the fashionable 
boarding-school avoided Annie Brown, and treated the 
mechanic’s daughter with contempt, came to her aid, 
protected and shielded the talented, proud girl, from the 
insolence of her tormentors ; and, true to her school 
friendship, seeming not to notice the wound the sufferer 
sought to conceal, would have led her to the only true 
source of consolation, had she not perversely turned from 
her to seek forgetfulness in dissipation. 

Though “ trained in the way she should go,” Annie 
ceased to pray and to read her Bible. But we spare the 
painful recital, — we forbear to put aside the smiling sem- 
blances that conceal the under-current of life. 

Yerily, man’s is a twofold existence; and often, alas 
too often, while that which meets the eye is glittering 
with sunshine, the heart-world is involved in deepest 
[ 

A desperate gambler in the game of life, losing happi- 
ness, Annie Brown played for wealth, for distinction, and 
was successful; she married into one of the first families, 
was mistress of a splendid establishment and elegant equi- 
page, was f§ted and flattered. The husband, a cipher 
appended to the $500,000, to be sure, but good-natured 
withal, and indulging her every whim, — what more could 
she desire ? 

Often did the beautiful highly gifted wife ask herself 
the question ; and the empty, aching heart replied, 
“ Sympathy, companionship, something to love !” 

When too late, poor Annie discovered — like the fruit 
growing on the borders of the Dead Sea, luscious and 
beautiful to look upon, but crumbling to ashes, bitter 
ashes, at the touch — that riches, fashion, adulation, con- 
tain no food for the heart, But it was the old story of 


VIOLET. 


11 


the Spartan boy and the fox. The answer never tran- 
spired. To the world, Mrs. Irving’s life was a brilliant 
success ! 

The tale was told, and gently drawing Violet to 
her, and impressing a kiss upon the forehead of the 
weeping girl,* Mrs. Irving said, in a broken, husky 
voice, — “ Fancy no bright Utopia for your future, dear 
one; indulge not in fond dreams of happiness; happi- 
ness ! we all talk of it, — who has found it? Disappoint- 
ment, vexation, misery , is the common lot. ‘There is 
a stern likeness in the fate of man;’ yet each vainly 
hopes to prove an exception.” 

“Don’t talk so, grandmamma; you frighten me;” and 
Violet began to cry; she had cried a great deal during 
the sad recital. But there were no tears in the grand- 
mother’s eyes; once they were dimmed with weeping, but 
the source of tears was now dry ! As if turned to stone, 
Mrs. Irving sat gazing at the table before her. 

“Strange,” she murmured, speaking more to herself 
than to Violet; “strange this depth of love within the 
human breast, — a fancy which a word, a jest, an awkward- 
ness, anything can dispel, yet nursed into a ‘being and 
a power,’ masters the strongest mind; ‘a flower, brushed 
by the bee’s wing from the tree; a bubble on the sea, 
broken by the gentle dip of the swallow’s wing; the 
fire-fly’s tiny spark, crushed by a touch,’ — resisting 
reason, pride, ay, even unworthiness in the object!” 

The last words were scarcely audible; she remained 
silent a few minutes, when, as if the statue had suddenly 
become instinct with life, turning to Violet, she said, 
almost fiercely, — 

“Violet, if^rp u would not be ivretched , crush out 
every spark of passion while yet you may ; nursed with 


12 


VIOLET. 


day-dreams, fanned by earnest questionings of hope and 
fear, ere you suspect your danger, it becomes a devour- 
ing flame ! When the heart has learned to thrill at the 
mere mention of the loved one’s name ; when pleasure 
is only such, if shared with them , and sorrow loses its 
bitterness while they whisper comfort; when to see them, 
hear their voice, know that they are near, is happiness , 
their absence misery, — 0 heaven! a love like this, 
if ” 

The sentence was gasped rather than spoken, and all 
that Yiolet gathered of the last part was death, — death 
to the heart , though the body lives on ! A long, tearless 
sob, and she relapsed again into silence. 

* The cold, fixed, stony gaze, made Yiolet tremble. 
Was this, too, a new phase of character; or was her 
grandmother going mad? Wild with terror, — “Speak 
to me!” she cried, “for heaven’s sake, speak, grand- 
mamma! don’t look so;” and, twining her arms around 
Mrs. Irving, Yiolet looked up imploringly in the rigid 
face. 

Recalled to herself by the agonized tone, Mrs. Irving 
started, pressed her hand to her brow, gave a long shud- 
dering sigh, and with an effort at composure, said, speaking 
fast and nervously, — “Poor girl! I loved her as a sister; 
shrinking from the world’s sympathy, she dressed her 
face in smiles, and duped the hundred-tongued tattler. 
To me, and me alone, were confided the sufferings of 
that breaking, I should say, rather, that freezing heart ; 
for it did not break — it turned to ice! And this wreck 
of lofty aspirations, beautiful sympathy, and warm affec- 
tions, her own act! the result of absurd contemptible 
coquetry ! Yiolet, can you wonder I am alarmed at the 
course you are pursuing?” 


VIOLET. 


13 


Starting to her feet, Mrs. Irving walked hurriedly up 
and down the room; gradually her step, irregular and 
rapid, grew more steady; the bland smile returned to 
her lip; the mask was resumed, and, seating herself at 
the table and taking up a book, accosting Yiolet as 
if nothing had occurred, she began relating to her the 
story. 

Occupied with the domestic tragedy to which she had 
been listening, and the unkind opinion Mrs. Irving had 
expressed of her lover, passionately fond as Yiolet was 
of legends, and those of the Hertz Mountains especially, 
the unreal horrors failed to arrest her attention; and 
though seeming to listen, she unfortunately distributed 
her monosyllabic answers most injudiciously, replying 
yes, when she should have said no ; and at last broke in 
abruptly upon a sentence of which she had not heard a 
word, with “ Grandmamma, you have misjudged poor 
Willie sadly; he is bright and full of drollery; most 
people are volatile at his age, but he has a great deal of 
feeling, and is extremely kind-hearted; you make no 
allowances for a petted only son.” 

Mrs. Irving replied by a dissenting shake of the head, 
and that pitying, provoking smile, harder to bear than 
bitter invective or flat contradiction. Yiolet looked very 
much as if she was about to cry again. 

“ Poh, poll ! you don’t pretend to deny that Willie is 
a flirt, Yiolet? He piques himself upon it, dear; you 
know he does. From his manner one would conclude he 
was engaged to every girl he converses with.” 

“ Oh ! is that all f” said Yiolet, brightening up ; “ devo- 
tion is the present style ; everybody is devoted , everybody 
in causeless ecstacies, and in breathless haste when they 


14 


VIOLET. 


have nothing on earth to do ; he candid, grandmamma, 
blame the times we live in, but not poor Willie.” 

Here the subject dropped; and, the burden lifted from 
her heart, Violet chatted away as usual, and in the course 
of conversation mentioned having met Mrs. Ives in the 
street that morning, and that she was looking very badly. 

“Fasting” remarked Mrs. Irving, a sarcastic smile 
curling her beautiful lips. “ Poor Lucy! a nice person 
spoiled by fanaticism.” 

Poor Lucy was the generous warm-hearted girl who 
had taken her part at school, at whose house she had met 
the husband who had elevated the mechanic’s daughter 
to her present position in society ; the friend who, though 
neglected and forgotten, was the first to offer sympathy 
when her husband died ; the patient, sympathizing nurse 
who seldom quitted her bedside during the illness that 
followed the sad tidings of the death of her only child, 
Violet’s father, who died abroad. Dissimilar in fate as in 
character, Mrs. Ives’s interior life -was blessed with that 
“ peace the world can neither give nor take away;” the 
outward, a continued succession of afflictions, — husband, 
children, every near relative, had passed before her into 
a better world, leaving her alone in the old family man- 
sion. Devoting her life to good works, Mrs. Ives’s heart 
spanned all creation in its grasp of love ; struck off no 
link in the great chain of human affinities, because the 
gilding had worn off; on the contrary, with patient, un- 
wearied love the excellent widow carefully gathered up, 
and tenderly strove to unite the severed links sought out 
in the haunts of misery, — among the outcasts of crime, 
the down-trodden, the debased. Feeling, with the beau- 
tiful humility of the good divine, when he met the male- 
factor on the way to the gallows, — “ So would I have 


VIOLET. 


15 


violated the laws of God and man, but for sustaining 
power from on high.” 

Mrs. Ives had the sweetest way of performing “ those 
little kindnesses which most leave undone, or despise ; a 
blessing she was to all; God made her so, and week-day 
holiness fell from her noiseless as the snow.” She had 
her faults. 

“ There clings an earth-stain to earth’s loveliest things.” 

In plain prose, every son and daughter of fallen 
Adam have their crotchets. Some, fanciful little grace- 
notes, — rather amusing than otherwise, — the less fa- 
vored, dreadful long semibreves that would try the pa- 
tience of Job, did he live in these fast times. Mrs. Ives’s 
were very bearable; Jane, the girl she had brought up, 
and faithful old Mary, the sharer in her life’s sorrows, 
would tell you the dear lady was perfection ! Such was 
poor Lucy, the “nice person spoiled by fanaticism!” 

Cousins, married young, with similar tastes and views, 
the husband and wife seemed to have but one heart. 
Their first child was a boy, bright, precocious, but so ex- 
tremely delicate that their love for him was ever a cup 
of trembling. Ere long another little claimant for their 
watchful care appeared, but love and care were unavail- 
ing to detain him with them ; at the most endearing age 
the little spirit returned to God who gave it ; a third, 
a fourth, leaving another and another vacant place in 
the nursery, as the music of pattering feet and infant 
prattle passed away forever. 

Dearer, more precious to the bereaved parents grew 
the talented boy ; rapidly maturing in the school of af- 
fliction. Great was their joy, when little Helen was born ; 
yet Albert’s exceeded it, as did his anxiety, when the 
period, fatal to others, drew near; and when it passed, 
his joy was unbounded. 


16 


VIOLET. 


But the death-cloud was gathering; the fearful lustre 
of eye, and mantling hectic, proved their darling Albert 
doomed to an early grave. He died at seventeen, of 
rapid consumption. Six w^eeks after, little Helen fol- 
lowed; ill but a few hours, of membranous sore-throat, 
she was snatched from them in a moment; — lovely, un- 
changed, it was hard to believe her dead. Heart-break- 
ing it was to see the parents kneeling beside the little 
coffin, the big tears streaming down their cheeks, and 
hear their fervent, — “The Lord gave, and the Lord 
taketh. away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” The 
following, written by the mother at the time, will, per- 
haps, best describe their feelings: — 

Thou, thou my God, alone dost know 
My aching bosom’s weight of woe ; 

Father, do thou the grace bestow, 

To say ’tis well. 

Whatever cross thy love ordains, 

Teach me to feel while faith sustains, 

And every murmuring thought restrains, — 

Thy will be done. 

And e’en while falls the human tear 
O’er severed ties, and hopes most dear, 

Still be my heart’s submissive prayer, — 

Thy will be done. 

Come weal, come woe, whate’er betide ; 

Whate’er be granted, or denied, 

Dear Father, let thy love decide, — 

Thy will be done. 

Mr. Ives’s health, at no time very robust, sank under 
the blow ; and without a murmur, without any visible com- 
plaint ; day by day he grew more feeble. The last one 


VIOLET. 


17 


came ; and when the keen autumnal blast strewed the 
pavement with the seared and yellow leaves of the old 
weeping-willow before the door, they laid the father be- 
side his children in the family vault at St. Paul’s. 

Alone in the old house, silent as that vault, the twi- 
light deepening around her, as the childless widow 
watched the huge willow swaying about in the wind, a 
sudden gust every now and then gathering up the long 
branches and sending them sweeping past the window, 
her thoughts often reverted to the past, — to the time 
when she came there a bride; her joy and pride when 
she saw her first-born in its father’s arms — his child, 
their child; the smile with which he gazed at its sweet 
baby face; Albert’s astonishment when, a few years 
after, turning back the mantle from the flannel bundle 
on the bed beside her, she showed him his tiny brother ; 
the little fellow’s wonder and amazement at the red, 
wee baby; the happy times they had together, and how 
he sorrowed with them when the little cherub died; the 
singular affection he had for Helen; the last evening 
they passed in his room — a sultry night in June; the 
fragile boy, white as the snowy pillows supporting him 
in the easy chair by the window, gazing at the sky 
quivering with stars, and the clear moonlight shining 
through the drooped boughs of the sombre old willow. 

How vividly objects, at the moment scarcely noticed, 
when thinking the trying scene over in after years, 
come before us again, forming a picture never to be 
effaced from the memory, — the tree, the sky, the very 
furniture of the room ; her husband leaning with his back 
against the mantelpiece, gazing as intently upon Albert 
as Albert at the star-lit sky ; Helen on a low stool at her 
brother’s feet ! As she bent over him to arrange his pil- 
3 


18 


VIOLET. 


lows, how the affectionate boy threw his arms around her, 
as he said, “ Mother dear, I shall often think of you in 
heaven.” 

His father’s convulsive sob, and dear little Helen’s 
stealing round to him, and saying, in what was meant to 
be a whisper, the tears coursing down her own cheeks, — 
“ Father, please don’t; it makes brother worse when we 
cry.” Unable to control his feelings, how the father 
rushed from the room; how the dying boy’s eyes fol- 
lowed him; the effort she made to command her voice 
when she asked Albert if he had no fears ; the pressure 
of his cold, damp hand, and the cheerful tone in which 
he replied, “None, dear mother. Since I have realized 
that ‘the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin ,’ 
I have enjoyed sweet peace.” 

The smile and hectic flush that for the moment lit up 
his pale face as he exclaimed, glancing out of the win- 
dow, “If earth is so very beautiful, what must heaven 
be?” and how quickly that smile faded, when, burying 
her face in her hands, poor Helen burst into tears, and 
sobbed as if her heart would break. Weak as he was, 
and gasping for breath, how the dear boy tried to soothe 
her, bending down and kissing her trembling hands ; his, — 
“Look at me, look at your brother, darling,” so tender, 
so affectionate, it wrung the heart he would have com- 
forted! “Don’t cry, we shall soon meet in that blessed 
world where there is no sorrow, no pain, — never, never to 
part more;” and the tone in which Helen sobbed out, — 
“Will you think of me, too , in heaven?” her hands still 
to her face. “Yes, pet; come, let me see you smile.” 
How the little hands opened for a moment, and closed 
again, the tears trickling faster than ever through the 
slender fingers ! 


VIOLET. 


19 


Mrs. Ives saw it all as when it happened, but it 
brought no repining ; her heart was with her dear ones 
in that better world- where tears are not, and partings 
cannot come. 

********** 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, 
eleven, twelve. The wind was east, and the dull, muf- 
fled knell of time, startlingly distinct, echoed through 
the large drawing-rooms. 

“Ring for John, dear,” said Mrs. Irving, with a ner- 
vous shudder; “it is time we were in bed;” and, leaving 
the servant extinguishing the lights, Violet and her 
grandmother passed through the marble-paved hall, and 
up the wide stairs, and exchanging the good-night kiss 
at Mrs. Irving’s dressing-room door, parted, Violet to 
dream of Willie, the grandmother, restless, wakeful, and 
depressed, to realize that successful ambition, as disap- 
pointed love, hath its thorns. 

Violet excused herself from accompanying her grand- 
mother in her drive the next morning, on the plea of 
wishing to practice a difficult piece of music ; in reality, 
to indulge in castle-building, and solve, if possible, the 
difficult problem why Willie did not propose. A thou- 
sand times had he made her understand she was dearer 
to him than all the world beside ; but in vain she pon- 
dered and puzzled over whys and wherefores , and with 
a weary, discontented sigh, selecting the last opera from 
a pile of music, she laid it on the stand before her, 
tuned the harp, played a few bars, and, her head resting 
against the instrument, her hand wandering among the 
chords, now and again rousing a sweet, low note, she was 
soon so absorbed that she heard neither the ring at the 
bell nor the familiar voice inquiring for her in the entry. 


20 


VIOLET. 


The drawing-room door was open. Ashton entered un- 
perceived. 

“Asleep, Miss Violet?” he asked, advancing toward 
her with a smile. 

Violet started. Had Willie seen her grandmother 
driving, and embraced the opportunity to decide his fate ? 
Her heart fluttering, with a hightened color she glanced 
at her lover. Willie was coolly rolling one of the most 
comfortable chairs in the room to the harp, and throwing 
himself loungingly into it, began playing with his hat. 

Shall I repeat the conversation? We must make 
allowances for the youth. Willie Ashton is a young 
man, a very young man ; a beau at school, a beau at col- 
lege, keeping fast trotters, and spending $30,000 a year. 
A millionaire expectant, has he not a right to play bil- 
liards and ecart£ all day, smoke any quantity of cigars, 
and talk any amount of nonsense? 

“I’ll take music lessons, and go to sleep practicing; 
it is vastly interesting; you are perfectly radiant this 
morning, Miss Violet; a glorious day; have you been 
out?” 

“No, it is too wet.” 

“Chestnut Street is crowded; I walked from the Gi- 
rard down to Levy’s behind a splendid foot and ankle, 
and amused myself counting skirts ; the lady in question 
carried six, including the skeleton. By-the-way, that 
morning dress of yours is perfect; how well the cord and 
tassels match the color; and your hair — always wear it 
so — it suits your style exactly.” 

This to a girl whose heart was all in a flutter, and her 
cheeks tingling in the expectation of a declaration of 
love! 

Out of patience with him, provoked with herself, 


VIOLET. 


21 


thoroughly disgusted, Violet wondered she could ever 
have thought the silly trifler good looking or agreeable. 

Their eyes met; his, brimful of love; a smile, his 
peculiar smile, sweet and innocent as a child’s, was on 
his lip. 

“He is handsome, very handsome,” Violet said to 
herself. “All the young men discuss dress, though 
grandmamma does denounce it as undignified and trifling. 
Harry, wise as he is, knew my shawls and ribbons by 
heart when he loved me.” 

“A few of us have subscribed, and intend giving a 
daylight dance in the country, Miss Violet; won’t you 
come to it?” asked Ashton, drumming on the crown of 
his hat. 

“Delightful! certainly, with pleasure,” answered Vio- 
let. “To whom beside yourself are we indebted for the 
charming novelty?” 

Ashton named the young men, adding, “We have the 
nicest set of fellows for managers, — up to the German, 
or to anything.” 

“To lancers?” inquired Violet. 

“Vile, tame things!” replied Ashton in an impatient 
tone. “Lasco has humbugged the public famously with 
a name; the rascal’s been bribed by a secret convention 
of grandmammas to smuggle in the four and back two, 
ladies chain, and the absurd nodding to one another at 
corners, with which the old ladies amused themselves 
when they were young. I wanted to come round last 
night to talk it over with you, but it rained like the 
mischief, and I dislike to travel by water. We think of 
confining our invitations to the unmarried.” 

Her grandmother’s remark occurred to Violet, and 
3 * 


22 


VIOLET. 


she smiled as she inquired what was his objection to 
married persons. 

“Why, it don’t do to make exceptions, Miss Violet, 
and some matrons make hateful remarks about spirited 
waltzing; I believe in my soul it’s sheer envy.” 

“Not a whit more severe than single non-waltzers,” 
said Violet. 

Ashton thought a moment, and, assuming the look of 
a Solomon, replied, “A bright idea occurs to me; I’ll 
obligingly volunteer to fill out the cards, and forget every 
slow girl!” 

“Heavens! I hope it’s not a fast party? I assure 
you I do not feel at all flattered to he included in that 
category.” 

“Oh, you know what I mean — extra proprieties — 
persons who think it a crime to talk nonsense, and look 
injured by a jest. I like women well spiced with devil- 
try.” 

“Mrs. Denby, for example.” 

“Excuse me,” and Willie shuddered: “too bitter, too 
pungent; there’s no fun in her; it’s unmitigated malice. 
Mrs. Denby has lived too long; sensible persons die 
with their bloom, like sweet summer flowers.” 

“Suppose, like Mrs. Green, they bloom forever?” 

“The horror! Sid. Smith vows she lays on her roses 
with a trowel ! Thank heaven, I’m not so delicate as 
the man who fainted whenever the shadow of an ugly 
woman passed over him ; but I can’t stand her. Mrs. 
Green shan’t be at our dance, that’s positive.” 

“How old was your mother when she died?” and 
Violet’s face dimpled all over with arch smiles, bright as 
sunshine on a rippling stream. 

Willie raised his eyes from the white hand, tapping 


VIOLET. 


23 


the crown of his hat with a puzzled look of inquiry; but 
instantly comprehending her meaning, he put on what 
he called his funereal face, replied, — “My sainted mo- 
ther, heaven rest her soul, died in beauty, like a rose 
blown from the parent stem.” 

“A pearl dropped from a diadem,” added Violet, elon- 
gating hers. 

“ Don’t laugh, Miss Violet ; she taught me these verses, 
when, a little boy, I stood at the knee of my dissolute , 
widowed parent, — as the worthy Mrs. Partington would 
say;” and Willie passed his hand over his eyes. 

Little addicted to poetry, as her fat, wheezy King- 
Charles, — a ridiculous likeness of herself, who always 
occupied the front seat of her carriage, — the mother was 
at the moment in vigorous health. 

Nothing was talked of for the next week but the day- 
light party. A clear sunshiny day it proved, — -just the 
weather for such an occasion. Mrs. Irving and her friend 
Mrs. Seaton, wrapped in $1000 cashmeres, in Mrs. Sea- 
ton’s open carriage; Belle, Dr. Theodore, (her brother,) 
Harry Vane, and Violet in Mrs. Irving’s stylish equi- 
page, drove from the door of that lady’s brown-stone 
mansion in Walnut Street, an hour later than that 
named in the card. The delicious brisk air of early 
spring ; the leaves just out of bud, of every shade of ten- 
der green, — beautiful, and welcome, after the long win- 
ter, as summer flowers; the birds twittering, and the 
speed with which they flew over the smooth turnpike, 
(Mrs. Irving’s superb bays were fast trotters,) excited 
Violet’s spirits. 

Wrapped in her becoming opera cloak, her dress 
gathered carefully around her, to prevent, if possible, 
its being tumbled, Belle reclined gracefully in the cor- 


24 


VIOLET. 


ner of the carriage, twisting the tassel of her fan, in a 
semi-oblivious state; Vane, opposite, quite as silent, and 
even more preoccupied. Theodore alone responded to 
Violet’s lively sallies, by a pleasant laugh, — a very 
good laugher he was, though seldom originating mirth 
himself. The Doctor possessed no distinguishing indi- 
viduality, unless, indeed, a remarkably well-shaped hand 
and brilliantly white teeth. 

“Are you alive, Belle?” and by way of testing the 
fact, Violet administered a wicked little pinch. 

“Violet!” exclaimed Belle, in the tone of living and 
suffering mortality, and rubbing her arm, relapsed again 
into silence. Poor Belle was severely tried ; a glimpse of 
a pretty cottage, a graceful tree, or a bird flitting past, 
and Violet’s head was out of the window. Belle’s every 
thought was centred in those exquisitely embroidered 
flounces, each additional crease an agony, and every time 
Violet moved she crushed them shockingly. 

Colorless as the marble Venus in the drawing-room at 
home, her features as regular, and almost in as calm re- 
pose, Belle’s face had but one expression. Love would 
never have “fallen asleep in the sameness of its unchang- 
ing brightness,” though the fickle little god might very 
possibly have dozed, ennuied by its unvarying sweet 
placidity. There was nothing gay about Belle, not even 
her ribbons; hers was altogether the subdued style; 
her habitual smile, a ray of moonlight on the aforesaid 
marble Venus; the statue was good, the drapery per- 
fect. Violet met angels, or the drollest, most amusing 
little elves, at every step, on the dusty highway of life; 
to Belle, — 

“A primrose blooming on the river’s brim, or at a cottage door, 

A yellow primrose was, and nothing more'' 1 


VIOLET. 


25 


Mrs. Seaton, the mamma, an ambitious, practical, 
managing woman, had as great a passion for party-giv- 
ing as her diminutive, worn-out-looking spouse for foot- 
ing up interminable lines of dollars and cents. The 
wife delighted in diamonds and camel’s hair; the hus- 
band, in slipping on the old coat that hung on a nail 
behind his desk, in the counting-house ; talking over the 
price of stocks, with cronies too unrefined to he intro- 
duced at his palatial home; smoking shocking cigars, — 
horrible long nines, — that would have been the death of 
his gentleman son ; and spitting over the floor ad libitum. 
The trespass at home was sure to he visited with dis- 
gusted looks, and lamentations over velvet carpets. The 
only time that Mr. Seaton really felt the house belonged 
to him, was when the family were summering it at New- 
port, or some other watering place. Whenever a party 
was to come off at home, discovering latent symptoms of 
gout, the Doctor prescribed colchicum, and ordered papa 
to bed. Shrewd as money-making, the old man under- 
stood the prescription perfectly, hut obeyed it to the 
letter. He would rather have kept his bed a month; 
rather swallowed strychnine, ratsbane, or corrosive sub- 
limate, than, dressed in his Sunday’s best, assisted his 
queenly wife and elegant daughter in receiving the eight 
hundred . Once, and once only , he attempted it; but 
no sooner did the point-lace and diamonds come crowd- 
ing in than, deserting his allegiance, the master of the 
house sneaked off into a corner, and, his shoulders up in 
his ears, with feelings very much akin to Miss Killmans- 
egg’s worthy papa’s, began “ washing his hands with in- 
visible soap and imaginary water.” 

Vane’s figure was commanding; his face agreeable 
rather than handsome ; yet it won upon you, for the fore- 


26 


VIOLET. 


head and eyes were spirituelle ; the nose refined, poeti- 
cal; and the mouth abounding in varied expressions. 
His rich voice at times indicated unusual firmness; at 
others, gentle, almost to womanly tenderness; children 
sought his caresses ; the criminal at the bar quailed be- 
fore the lawyer’s keen, honest glance. 

As he leaned hack in the carriage, his arms folded on 
his broad chest, his lips firmly compressed, and his brows 
almost meeting, his thoughts were wandering back to 
the time when, merry urchins, he and Violet romped to- 
gether at Moss Bank, (his mother’s country place,) or, 
seated side by side on the grass under the old elm on 
the lawn, read fairy tales from the same book, the wind 
blowing her curls in his face and her own eyes. Child 
as he was, he loved her even then, and she loved him 
too, though she smiled and pouted when he called her 
his little wife. The collegian, though the feeling at 
heart remained the same, altered the term of endear- 
ment to sister. But a “ change had come over the spirit 
of their life’s dream.” His mother was dead, Moss Bank 
rented to strangers, and Violet, cold to him, flirting des- 
perately with one who did not appreciate, and never 
would , never could, love her as he did. 


VIOLET. 


27 


CHAPTER II. 

Death had so frequently darkened Mrs. Ives’s dwell- 
ing, that nothing now was left to fear; the loved, +he 
bright, the beautiful, were in the grave ! the next shaft 
would unite her to them. 

Yet lonely as she seemed, there were two, at least, 
who would deeply mourn her loss; and very dear were 
Meta Gray and Ernest Clayton to the excellent widow. 
One came to her heart, in the ordinary way of school 
friendships, beloved as the chosen companion of her son ; 
the other, a self-breveted niece. 

Classmates, sitting at the same form, the boys made 
friends, as the children say, at once. Ernest was soon 
after attacked with inflammatory rheumatism ; and Al- 
bert, wretched lest he might lack the tender and vigi- 
lant care which ever soothed his ill bed, — “0 father,” 
he said, the tears springing fast to his eyes, “the rheu- 
matism may fly to his heart, and he may die in a mo- 
ment, as Tom Villars did. 

Mr. Ives rang for a servant. “Call a carriage,” he 
said; “I will go with you, Albert, and bring him home; 
we shall do all we can to save him from such a fate.” 

Fortunately, Ernest was in a condition to be removed. 
Mr. Ives brought him home, took him up stairs in his 
arms, and kind Mrs. Ives nursed the ill boy as if he had 
been her own son ; and a son he seemed to them from 
that day. Intimate with the Irvings, though living op- 
posite, the Grays visited the Iveses but rarely. 

Meta’s mother died when she was but six years old. 
At first, every one thought the father a pattern widower ; 


28 


VIOLET. 


but his tears dried ; the bowed shutters were thrown open ; 
occupied with business, his club, dinner-parties, and re- 
ceiving company at home, (Gray’s suppers were the 
pleasantest in Philadelphia,) the widower found little 
time to devote to the nursery. True, before quitting 
* the house, he looked in for a moment upon his little girl 
and saw that she was well cared for: a romp, a kiss, and 
papa was gone ! 

In the interim, very lonely was the poor child, while 
Betty (the nursery maid) was flirting with the gentle- 
manly waiter in the kitchen or gossiping with the cook 
next door, and, taking her favorite doll in her arms, 
Meta slipped away from her and ran across the street 
to play with Helen Ives. Helen was learning to read ; 
her mamma made the lessons very pleasant for her. 
Meta volunteered to join the class, became a promising 
scholar and confirmed runaway ! One by one her toys 
found their way into Helen’s cheerful nursery; and soon 
Mrs. Ives’s was as much Meta’s as Helen’s home. 

Mr. Gray made no objection to the arrangement; 
Meta amused him with her prattle at the only time he 
found it convenient to see her. When he was not at 
home, she was better at the Ives’s than with the ser- 
vants. The Ives’s were ridiculously religious ; but the 
child was too young to be indoctrinated into their in- 
sane notions : a good family, she would not make any 
improper acquaintances at their house. 

Had a blind, aimless chance, led those children 
thither ? The inmates of the old house (it was a quaint 
old house, draped with ivy vines) thought not. Viewing 
each event of life as directed by Him who spake the 
world into being, yet notes the fall of a sparrow to earth, 
Mrs. Ives and her excellent husband felt that two more 
young immortals were added to their responsibilities. 


VIOLET. 


29 


Boarding-schools are seldom training-places for heaven. 
Mr. B. professed to prepare his pupils only for college. 
Dressed in a forty-dollar robe, and covered with a pro- 
fusion of costly lace, Meta’s parents, in presenting her 
to God in baptism, promised “she should renounce the 
pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and be a faith- 
ful soldier of the cross unto her life’s end wrapped the 
sleeping babe in its superb French cloak, and ere they 
reached home forgot the solemn vows made in her be- 
half. In truth, they never felt their import ; the words 
were a part of the ceremony of giving the infant a name. 

Meta was a very pretty child, and, when old enough 
to behave decorously, exquisitely dressed, was taken to 
church, — something to be admired, envied, — as mamma 
wore her French bonnet, — and amused herself playing 
with mamma’s fan or embroidered pocket-handkerchief ; 
or, her head on papa’s shoulder, slept through the service, 
as such darlings have the extraordinary talent of doing, 
without displacing one of her pretty curls. The Grays 
had a horror of genteel and vulgar children being mixed 
up together at Sunday-schools. The tiresome service 
over, Sunday was as any other day to Meta, who, up to 
the time she breveted herself Mrs. Ives’s little niece, was 
as ignorant of her duty to God and her neighbor as if, a 
dweller in an African jungle, she lived beyond the sound 
of the Gospel. 

Sir Walter Scott, speaking of parental affection, says 
beautifully — 

“Is there a tear so limpid and so meek 
It would not stain an angel’s cheek ? 

’Tis that by a pious father shed 
Upon a duteous daughter’s head.” 

4 


30 


VIOLET. 


There is yet another, perhaps even more unselfish 
pleasure that Mr. and Mrs. Ives experienced, when they 
saw the good seed, prayerfully sown, springing up and 
bearing fruit in the minds of these dear children. One 
morning Meta came over, looking very happy : — 

“ Aunty,” said the artless little creature, so soon as 
she had embraced Mrs. Ives and Helen, “I was mad 
with Betty last night, and I did vrant to slap her.” Mrs. 
Ives looked distressed. “ Oh, but I didn’t,” she replied to 
the look. “ I remembered Cain killed Abel — poor Abel — 
in a passion ; and I went by myself and prayed God to 
take the passion out of my heart ; and when it was gone, 
I was very glad I didn’t slap her. Presently after, they 
cried fire, and the engines came tearing by, and I begged 
her hard not to leave me ; but she would ; she ran right 
down stairs, and I was so frightened that I cried, and co- 
vered up my head in the bedclothes ; but I said the prayer 
you taught me, Aunty, — ‘0 God, my heavenly Father, 
who seest in darkness as in the light, keep me safe under 
the shadow of thy wing,’ — and I wasn’t a bit afraid; I 
took off the covering and looked about, not in the dark 
corners, though, (Meta was very truthful,) and went to 
sleep, and never knew when she came up.” 

Thus exemplifying, by her infant experience, that re- 
ligion a is good for this life as the life to come,” beauti- 
fully adapted to our daily wants, weaknesses, and temp- 
tations, “a present help in time of need,” to the babe of 
a few short summers, as to the age-stricken, tottering on 
the brink of the grave. 

The children are grown up. Ernest Clayton, in Eu- 
rope studying the old masters, having selected the 
charming though unlucrative profession of an artist; 


VIOLET. 


31 


Meta, in New York, where she has been some months 
with her father, who is there on business. 

I know not if it be so with others, but to me inanimate 
objects have a language that addresses itself as directly 
to the heart as the stranger face whose mournful ex- 
pression elicits our sympathy, all unconscious of the 
cause of unhappiness. Mrs. Ives’s house impressed me 
with a vague feeling of sadness ere I knew aught of her 
history. The huge willow, too, drooping low, and seem- 
ing to shrink from the stars twinkling down upon it as 
a mourner turns away in his sorrow from a joyous face, 
appeared to partake of the grief which, I felt convinced, 
by a sort of intuition, was saddening the time-stained 
dwelling. House and tree look pretty much as they did 
when Ernest and Meta were children. 

The brick wall around the garden, more dingy, per- 
haps ; and of the garden, nothing now remains but one 
or two giant box, and a few sickly rose bushes. The 
ivy, year by year clambering higher and higher, not 
only covers the south gable, but has straggled up to the 
top of the clumsy stack of chimneys, and, indeed, above 
them. 

The droll, hump-backed dormant windows, and old 
brass knocker, — a frowning lion’s head, polished by a 
century’s neat housekeeping into the most comic expres- 
sion; arched windows, and that dark recessed door, the 
paint cracked into a fine network of seams and crevices, 
like the rind of a cantelope, look more antiquated than 
ever, surrounded as it is now by bran-new brown-stone 
houses. Glancing around him in Philadelphia, one in- 
voluntarily echoes Cheiver’s wish, — “ Would that, in this 
day of change and passion for novelty, men would leave 
a few stones for moss to gather upon!” 


32 


VIOLET. 


Little as the exterior has changed, the footprints of 
Time are even more apparent there than in the interior. 
Carpets will wear out, but the old have been replaced by 
others so similar, it is doubtful if Mrs. Ives herself re- 
members they are not the same she found on the floor 
when she came to the house a bride. With this excep- 
tion, like the enchanted palace in fairy tales, spell-bound 
by the lengthened slumber of a thousand years, every- 
thing remains as of yore. 

The prim family portraits hang in the self-same places 
on the panelled walls; the tall mahogany clock ticks 
behind the door; the silver-branch candlesticks retain 
their place on the mantelpiece, flanked on either side by 
blue and white India china flower-pots ; the tiles, picturing 
forth the story of Joseph and his brethren, still line the 
cavern-like fire-place, in which (Mrs. Ives is one of the 
chilly) a bright hickory fire is now burning, popping out 
and scorching the carpet, as hickory always does. The 
judge, in powdered wig, seems smiling down from his 
place above the mantelpiece at his daughter-in-law for 
starting up with that frightened look to stamp out the 
spark on the rug, while that on the hem of her dress is 
burning a hole in her best bombazine. There’s some- 
thing genial, very pleasant and companionable in a 
bright blaze like that sparkling and crackling away. 
Mrs. Ives, her elbow on the arm of the great wide low 
chair, — rolled up to the rug on which pussy, stretched 
at full length, is purring her content, — her cheek on her 
hand, seems to be enjoying it as much, as she sits there 
watching the warm glow now lighting up the room, now 
dying out, and anon wavering again over the pictures, 
the old-fashioned furniture, and those blue and white 
tiles, so clean and glistening. How the blue men, blue 


VIOLET. 


33 


sheep, and great blue tears, large as sugar-plums, pelt- 
ing down, or rather standing forever still on the good 
Joseph’s cheeks, used to amuse Ernest! 

A carriage has stopped at the door; Mrs. Ives hears 
it, and, hastily rising, goes to the window, puts aside the 
curtain, and shading her eyes with her hand, looks eagerly 
out into the darkening street. A young girl springs 
from it, runs up the steps, and grasps the old lion’s head. 
How the brass beast grins and glistens in her small gloved 
hand, as the light from the street lamp glances upon it ! 
Jane was lighting the gas, but, with the burning allumet 
in her hand, is off to the door; she will be the first to 
see Miss Meta ; and old Mary, staid old Mary, forsaking 
the waffles, (every one in Philadelphia has raised waffles 
for a social tea,) comes hobbling rheumatically from the 
kitchen to welcome the dear child. Poor Mary is suf- 
fering from agetism; but the old woman persists in call- 
ing it rheumatism, and, deaf as a post, always says “she 
has taken cold and does not just now hear very well.” 
Another moment, and Meta is in Mrs. Ives’s arms. 

“How natural everything looks,” said the affectionate 
girl, wiping the tears of joy from her rosy cheeks, and 
smiling round as she paused a moment at the parlor door. 

Mrs. Ives resumed her arm-chair by the fire, and Meta 
went to the table, peeped into the little work-basket, 
glanced over the books, threw herself for a moment into the 
quaint old chairs, as if to say “how do you do” to them, 
and ended by drawing towards her a low stool, upon 
which she seated herself at Mrs. Ives’s feet, — putting up 
her pretty little mouth for another kiss. 

“God bless you, darling!” and as she spoke, Mrs. 
Ives bent down and kissed not only the lips, but the 
white forehead ; and smiling dow T n upon her the old sweet 
4* 


34 


VIOLET. 


smile, passed her hand caressingly over Meta’s head, as 
she used to do when a little child she sat there playing 
with her doll, and said, “ Come, Meta, tell me all about 
your long visit.” 

“ Oh, puss ! how do you do ?” Meta had just spied the 
old tabby, and hugging her, took her on her lap ; and 
playing with her soft velvet paws, stroking her old play- 
mate, paused every now and then in her animated ac- 
count of things and people, to whisper some endearing 
epithet to the drowsy creature. 

Leaving them to ask and answer questions, we follow 
Mr. Gray to his club, whither he went on setting Meta 
dowm at Mrs. Ives’s. 

Enter with me a large, well-lighted, handsomely-fur- 
nished apartment, in which are a number of gentlemen 
playing chess, or by twos and threes walking up and 
down the room smoking; a few passing round from table 
to table, watching the different games ; those rather apart 
from the rest, lolling in chairs, easy and yielding as the 
principles of the occupants; one an infidel, the other a 
universalist, are Gray and Andrews, the best players in 
the club. That is Gray worrying his whiskers, as if he 
held them responsible for his extraordinary blunders. 
What can the man be thinking of, running his fingers 
through his hair in that perplexed, distrait manner? 
Andrews is no match for him. What a tug ! if he car- 
ries any of those cherished whiskers home with him, it 
will be a mercy. Was there ever such a move? The 
tyro behind his chair, elevating his brows, laughs out- 
right. The genius who achieves five games at a time, 
blindfold, and Hoyle himself, king of chess players, would 
be beaten if they allowed their minds to run riot thus. 
Gray scarcely glances at the board. Edmund P. Gray, 


VIOLET. 


35 


Esq., with all his shrewdness, has been checkmated in 
the game of life, and by a woman. He is not thinking 
of the present, but studying out his next move on that 
board where, unhappily, mistakes are seldom retrievable. 

“Checkmate!” cried Andrews, in a tone of extreme 
exultation. It was no trifling or common triumph to 
beat Gray. Starting at the murmur around him, rub- 
bing his eyes as if but half awake, — 

“An accident , Andrews; I’ll take my revenge to- 
morrow night,” he said hurriedly, rose, bowed, took his 
hat and quitted the house, muttering to himself as he 
bent his steps slowly homeward, “I was an idiot not to 
have foreseen this; I might have known she would make 
the child a, fanatic.” 

But instead of turning the corner, he proceeded on to 
Walnut Street. A thought had occurred to him; he 
would ask Mrs. Irving’s advice ; and, somewhat relieved, 
Mr. Gray hastened thither. Mrs. Irving was at home, 
very glad to see him, listened attentively to his griev- 
ances, and, thinking the matter over a moment, ob- 
served, — 

“Extremely vexatious; I am not in the least sur- 
prised at your being annoyed. Ridiculous ! a beautiful 
girl wasting her time teaching Sunday-school, and sew- 
ing for Hottentots, who find it a greater luxury to dis- 
pense with clothes than to be frocked and pantalooned as 
our scape-graces are. Some one called upon me the other 
day with a subscription to an orphan house at Cape Palms ; 
but I knew the cannibals would be eating their wives to 
get their children into a nice home, and have them fed 
and clothed free of cost and trouble, and so to prevent 
increase of crime, — legislating for them all the way in 
America, — I refused my name to the deluded female;” 


36 


VIOLET. 


and Mrs. Irving laughed as if she had said something 
witty. 

Handsome women may talk nonsense with impunity. 
Mr. Gray laughed too, and really thought her quite 
bright. 

“Think of Meta’s refusing to go to the opera,” said 
the father, anxious to bring her back to the subject. 

“Really; did she not go once while you were in New 
York?” 

“No; nor could I coax her to a ball either;” and the 
unfortunate father looked perfectly inconsolable. 

“Absurd!” and Mrs. Irving’s tone had a world of 
scorn in it ; but, changing her manner, she quickly added, 
with an encouraging smile, “I’m sorry for you; but have 
patience; when a girl is pretty as Meta, these fancies 
are not apt to last; join us at Newport this summer, and 
I think I can promise that she will not scruple to go to 
balls and the opera next winter.” 

Thus ended the conference; the conversation flowed 
into the gossip of the hour, and, after a pleasant visit, 
Mr. Gray took leave, and returned home in a hopeful 
mood, satisfied that Meta would be a belle in spite of 
Mrs. Ives’s preaching. 

Meanwhile the daughter had confided to Mrs. Ives 
the little altercation which had taken place between her 
father and herself in New York, and her apprehension 
lest, disgusted by the strictness of her views, he would 
be more inimical than ever to religion. Mr. Gray, as I 
before stated, was not a believer in revelation. I should 
have said an infidel, but the present style is to soften 
terms ; for instance, in polite parlance, a thief is a de- 
faulter , , a liar an exaggerator. More agreeable to the 
ear, undoubtedly , but sadly pernicious to principle. 


VIOLET. 


3T 


“Dear Meta, there is not a greater or more fatal de- 
lusion than the hope of winning others to piety by our 
own unfaithfulness,” remarked Mrs. Ives gently. “I 
have seen it tried over and over again with the same ill 
success. Strictness of views, my child! The world is 
infinitely stricter; it demands perfection of the Chris- 
tian.” 

“ But, Aunty, Mrs. Belmont and Mrs. Armentage go 
to balls and the opera; they are communicants; can 
they be pious?” 

“ Hold, my dear. 4 Who art thou that judgest another 
man’s servant? to his own master he standeth or fall- 
eth!’ 4 Thou shalt not judge,' is as decidedly a com- 
mandment as 4 Thou shalt do no murder .’ We cannot 
examine ourselves too strictly, darling ; but, unable to 
scan motives , we must leave others to Him 4 unto whom 
all hearts are open,’ and strive to cultivate that blessed 
charity w’hich thinketh no evil. Your argument to your 
father was sound reasoning. If, to please him, you de- 
liberately commit what you believe to be a sin, there is 
no telling into what guilt you might be hurried, were the 
temptation sufficiently powerful. Men oppose pride of 
family, careful education, and honor, as barriers to 
temptation ; but look at the frightful, humiliating defal- 
cations daily occurring, until really a term, so constantly 
applied to individuals who have heretofore sustained high 
positions, has almost ceased to be considered a disgrace. 
The All-wise better understood human weakness, when, 
in a short prayer given to his disciples, he made one of 
its few petitions, 4 Lead us not into temptation .’ By 
the way of temptation, I am truly thankful to find Ernest 
has returned with his views confirmed rather than weak- 


38 


VIOLET. 


ened, by the ordeal of life abroad. How do you think 
he is looking ?” 

“ Quite handsome and Parisian;” and Meta blushed. 
“ I never was so surprised as when Ernest walked in this 
morning.” The clang of the old lion’s head announced 
a visitor. “ Talking of ” said Meta, as Ernest en- 

tered — 

“ Of angels, and saints will appear,” paraphrased the 
artist, shaking hands. “ I am so happy to be back in 
this dear old room again ;” and Ernest looked round him 
with a pleased smile, as he drew his chair up to the fire, 
roasting, because they roasted ; to judge from the flushed 
cheeks of the young people, it was too warm for both of 
them. “ After hurrying up and down the world, and 
being knocked about in a strange land, among people as 
strange, it really does my heart good to find myself once 
more in this cozy room, where every table and chair 
is an old friend. It seems to me I have read through 
the book of life, and turned again to the title-page. My 
heart is all in a flutter; only feel;” and Ernest took 
Meta’s hand ere she was aware of his intention, and laid 
it on his beating heart, gently pressing it as he held it 
there. Meta struggled to release it ; the fire burned her 
face dreadfully. 

“If there’s not puss!” and, springing to his feet, 
Ernest caught up the cat, with — “ I really have often 
been so homesick, that if Mrs. Tabbatha had walked in 
when the fit was on, I would have kissed you, pussy, 
notwithstanding your whiskers,” and he gave them a tug. 
Whereupon Mrs. Tabbatha dug her claws into his hand. 
“You wretch /” and Ernest flung her from him. 

“ Oh, Ernest !” and Meta ran to her, and looking hurt, 
as if she, instead of their old playmate, had been sent 


VIOLET. 


39 


flying half across the room, took her in her arms, gath- 
ered her close up to her, and patted and pitied the pam- 
pered animal until Ernest wished himself a cat. 

The artist was one of those who look stylish and well 
dressed in whatever they put on ; merry and unaffected, 
and intelligent as light-hearted ; an enthusiast in art ; a 
student of character, graphic and humorous in his de- 
scription of scenes and places. The clock tolled hour 
after hour unnoticed. Ernest had so much to tell, Mrs. 
Ives and Meta so much to ask, they were not half through 
when Jane entered with the unwelcome announcement 
“ that the carriage had come for Miss Meta.” So agree- 
ably had the time passed, it was only by referring to the 
old truth-teller behind the door, they could believe it was 
eleven even then. Ernest denied the fact, and averring 
the clock had run down, put his ear close to listen. 

“ Oh, I hear it distinctly where I stand,” said Meta, 
laughing, and gathering together her wrappers. 

“ Well, Time has folded his wings, and taken his even- 
ing at a bound,” said Ernest, with a sigh. “ What a pre- 
cious ninny I have been, to waste three years studying 
marble divinities, instead of seeking inspiration from 
those glorious eyes!” thought the young artist, as he 
looked at the smiling face, shaded by the rigolette, while 
Mrs. Ives was fastening Meta’s cloak. “ Love casts a 
hallo round the loved ones’ head, deathless, immortal, 
till they change or die,” sings Moore. Meta enjoyed the 
full benefit of the dazzling illusion. Ernest was despe- 
rately in love. A mouth that seemed formed but to utter 
kindness; her voice soft, sighing, cheerful, delicious, — a 
rich contralto; eyes with such depth of meaning, once 
seen, they haunted you ever after; how could Ernest 
escape? There was something, too, in Meta’s thought- 


40 


VIOLET. 


ful countenance which induced the belief, young as she 
was, she had already partaken of earth’s heritage of 
care; and it was curious to see, differ as they might in 
other respects, how this touching expression character- 
ized all the creations of the artist. The chief figure in 
every group had Meta’s eyes, Meta’s sweet, pensive 
smile. 

They are gone ! and alone again with the old portraits. 
How dull and silent the parlor seems ! and as Mrs. Ives 
glanced around, and thought how very different her life 
would have been, had her children been spared to her, 
with a rebellion unfelt in the hour of bereavement, 
“Lord!” she exclaimed, “why hast thou dealt thus with 
thy servant?” The temptation was momentary; her 
next thought — “ Bless the Lord, 0 my soul, and forget 
not all his benefits; who forgiveth all thy sins, and 
crowneth thee with mercy and loving-kindness.” Thank 
God, “ earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot cure.” 
******** 

To return to the party en. route for the matinde. The 
two elder ladies, wrapped in expensive camel’s-hair 
shawls; the good-natured Doctor laughing; Yane in- 
dulging in a mingled reverie of sweet and bitter memo- 
ries ; Yiolet provokingly restless ; and poor Belle, vic- 
timized. 

Willie, on the look-out for them, was at the carriage 
door to assist the ladies in alighting, and smilingly pre- 
sented his arm to Yiolet in the most matter-of-course 
way; and, smiling back upon him, Yiolet took it as a 
matter of course. Yane thought the whole procedure 
extremely undignified on her part, and presuming in 
Ashton; and, in an ill humor, walked up the steps, leav- 
ing the elder ladies to be escorted by two of the mana- 


VIOLET. 


41 


gers , — nice fellows , up to anything , — leaving Theodore 
to assist his sister. 

• Dancing had commenced. Mrs. Irving’s party was 
always the last everywhere. The mammas established 
in comfortable chairs, the young men and girls joined 
the dances. 

“What an insufferable crowd! how hot it is!” Mrs. 
Irving fanned herself, adding — “Really, there is no de- 
pending upon what people say. Ashton assured Violet 
it was to be quite a select affair. I believe all Philadel- 
phia is here.” 

“Philadelphia is very well dressed,” replied Mrs. Sea- 
ton; “unique, is it not?” directing Mrs. Irving’s atten- 
tion to a most becoming head-dress, composed of imitation 
pearls, and delicate ostrich-plumes mixed with bows of 
scarlet ribbon, looped up with pearls and chenille, with 
a fall of blond lace. 

“Those immense streamers kill the whole thing.” 

“You think so? now I like them; in my opinion, they 
are extremely stylish.” 

“Mrs. Vivain’s is prettier,” persisted Mrs. Irving. 
“That black velvet, wound round with gold cord and 
guimpure lace, with golden grapes and leaves at the side, 
mixed with those exquisite red flowers, is in better taste. 
Extravagant woman; she did not tell me she had re- 
ceived anything from France.” 

“O’Brian must hear that,” said Mrs. Seaton, laugh- 
ing. I was with Emma when she bought it; mine is an 
O’Brian, too; is it not a love? — so graceful, so light, and, 
though perhaps I should not say so, very becoming; don’t 
you think it is?” 

“Everything becomes you, dear,” was the smiling 
reply. 


5 


42 


VIOLET. 


“You flatter;” and Mrs. Seaton tried not to look 
pleased. “Come, tell me of the wedding; I am not for- 
tunate in timing my illness ; my attacks of neuralgia are 
always most inopportune; Belle and Theodore were at 
the reception, but they have no power of description; 
all I could gather from them was, that it was quite an 
imposing tableau.” 

“Perfectly dazzling ! Only imagine : the bride’s neck- 
lace, eighty-seven diamonds in gold festoons; brooch, 
ear-rings, and ring to correspond. But her bracelet was 
the most superb thing I ever beheld: a massive gold 
rattlesnake, with glistening scales of diamonds sparkling 
like 4 imprisoned sunshine;’ on the top of the head a 
cluster of larger diamonds ; the eyes brilliant rubies. It 
was a present from her father-in-law, and cost $800. 
The lace on her dress alone was a fortune; think of Va- 
lenciennes flounces a quarter of a yard deep, — $100 a 
yard ! her pocket-handkerchief, point d’ Alenin, of the 
most delicate embroidery, only a few inches of linen 
cambric in the centre. Her dress, white silk, brocaded 
with gold in a vine, and flowers.” 

“I saw that at the mantua-makers ; but Belle says at 
the reception the crowd was so great her bust alone was 
visible.” 

“Margaret Linsay wore a scarf of point d’Alengon for 
which Stewart charged $1500. Blanche’s bertha, of 
point d’Aiquille, without ground, was a present from her 
father last Christmas. Emily’s collar and sleeves, of flat 
point-lace with raised flowers, was quite as expensive. 
Poor girl ! she coughs incessantly ; I don’t think she’ll live 
through the winter. Ida’s pearls were magnificent. By- 
the-way, have you heard that she’s engaged to Frank 
Arlington?” 


VIOLET. 


43 


“ Indeed! is she?” 

• “Yes; they are to he married in July, and — of all 
places in the world — go to Capon Springs for the wed- 
ding tour.” 

“ Every one to her taste,” replied Mrs. Seaton, ele- 
vating her shoulders the least bitin the world. “Her 
father is rich enough to indulge her, if she fancied to 
sentimentalize among the pyramids. His income is said 
to be $10,000 a year. The wedding presents, I’m told, 
were most costly.” 

“ Perfectly regal ! Her mother gave her a gold tea-set : 
urn, tea and coffee pots, sugar bowl, cream pitcher, twelve 
cups, saucers, and spoons — the egg stand and spoons to 
correspond. A dinner-set of silver; crumb and pie 
knives, preserve spoons, fruit baskets, grape scissors, 
eighteen knives and forks, epergne, any number of waiters, 
and brooches, and bracelets, and ear-rings, and all sorts 
of costly things. The flowers with which the room and 
table were ornamented cost over $300. One of the 
pyramids on the table, classic figures supporting the roof 
of a temple, $50. I’ll tell Violet she must resign her- 
self to old-maidism; such a wedding and outfit would 
make us paupers!” 

“ Poor woman! we’ll raise a subscription for you; I 
see you’ll need it before long;” and Mrs. Seaton glanced 
to where Violet and Ashton were standing. Belle had 
been dancing, and, with her partner, joined them at the 
moment. 

“If there’s not Carry Simmons! ( Belle, I thought she 
was in deep mourning?” remarked Violet. 

“She wore crape and bombazine hut six weeks ,” said 
Belle, laughing; “she says she was not intimate with 
her aunt !” 


44 


VIOLET. 


“ Capital! six weeks is a long time to mourn for a 
person nobody knoivs. Is it certain that the Mrs. Fig- 
gins ever existed?” remarked Ashton. 

Violet looked hurt. “I begin to suspect you are as 
heartless,” she said, reprovingly. 

“I am heartless,” he whispered; and his look and tone 
gave a meaning to the words that made Violet crimson, 
and, looking down, she asked if he had ever seen Belle’s 
caricature of her grandmamma and herself. 

“ Caricatured you, did she? No; what was it? An 
old mastiff holding a little pup under her paw?” and 
Willie tried not to laugh. 

“No,” answered Belle. 

“0 Belle, they were unmistakable,” said Violet, with 
frank truthfulness ; hut the conversation was interrupted 
by young Murray, who claimed her for the dance. 

“I see your dogs are out, Miss Carry;” and Sid. 
Smith, who was waltzing with Caroline Delmare, glanced 
at the party across the room. 

“Pretty pup; it does not look dangerous;” and as she 
spoke, Carry advanced toward Violet, and extended her 
hand. “How do you do, Violet?” she said, as if they 
had been on the most friendly terms. 

Violet colored, and, with a gesture of extreme froideur, 
bent her head in acknowledgment. 

“You are too bad, Miss Carry!” said Sid., as they 
waltzed on. 

“I’ll be ladder before I’ve done, see if I’m not!” re- 
plied Carry, defiantly; and, completing the circuit of the 
room, they were again beside Willie and Violet. Belle 
and herself had exchanged beaux. True to her threat, 
walking directly up to, and resting her arm familiarly 
on Violet’s shoulder, — “Are you and Willie engaged?” 


VIOLET. 


45 


Carry asked, in a mysterious, audible whisper. Ere she 
had time to reply, Ashton’s arm was around her. 

“Have you rested, Miss Violet?” and they whirled 
off in the waltz. 

“So Meta would not be persuaded?” observed Mrs. 
Irving, as Mr. Gray made his bow. Mr. Gray smiled 
a forced smile, and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ah, Madame Irving, I am charmed to see you!” and 
hairy little Baron Von Rosentheldt, rushing up, extended 
his ungloved hand. 

“An unexpected pleasure, Baron;” and Mrs. Irving 
shook hands most cordially. “I supposed you in the 
West slaying bears.” 

“ Slay, Madame — slay?” repeated the Baron, extremely 
mystified. “Que ce soit; slay?” 

“Murder, shoot, kill,” responded Mrs. Irving; and, 
indisposed for a lesson in English, added, “Allow me to 
introduce my friend Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray, Baron Von 
Rosentheldt.” The gentlemen bowed and shook hands. 

“Rough sport, bear hunting,” said Mr. Gray, address- 
ing the pale, unmeaning blue eyes, and hooked nose, 
peering through the wilderness of beard. 

“I like Philadelfe batar The Baron’s smile dis- 
closed glitteringly white teeth — the creature had a mouth. 

“What game did you find in the prairies, sir?” ques- 
tioned Mr. Gray, with a desperate effort at conversation. 

u ~Prara, , praraT' echoed the Baron, again in the mist. 

Deficient in the organ of language, if there be such an 
organ, Mr. Gray did not know a word of German, and pos- 
sessed as little available French as the Baron did English. 
He wondered what the deuce women found so attractive 
in foreigners. Leaving Mrs. Irving to entertain the Ba- 
ron; bowing to a dumpy, sallow little woman, with an 
5 * 


46 


VIOLET. 


enormous diamond brooch, he asked Mrs. Fitzmaurice if 
she was disposed to promenade. 

“ Gladly ; it is so stupid sitting still, looking at those 
horrid waltzes.” 

“A decided tease.” After a few compliments upon 
her own charms, Mr. Gray fell into ecstacies about Mrs. 
Irving. 

“Made up!” sneered the diamond pin. 

“Her air is so noble.” 

“Why did not you say aristocratic , Mr. Gray?” que- 
ried the brooch, overflowing with envy. “John Saxe’s 
advice to such aristocrats is, ‘not to ascend the family 
thread, lest they 

‘ Find it waxed at the farther end 
By some plebeian vocation ! 

Or, mayhap, the boasted line 
May end in a loop of stronger twine, 

That plagued some worthy relation.’ 

Mrs. Irving’s family thread is coarse enough, heaven 
knows. My mother remembers old Peter Brown’s shop 
at the corner of Front and Market Streets; a miserable 
two-story wooden building. I’m astonished that people 
submit to her airs. A painter and glazier’s daughter at 
the head of society, looking down upon those her father 
was glad to work for.” 

The granddaughter of the tallow-chandler, less fortu- 
nate than the glazier’s daughter, had failed in her at- 
tempts to force her way within the cabalistic circle of 
fashion. 

“I’ve been peeping behind extensive hoops and in all 
retired nooks for you this half hour;” and Dr. Seaton 
threw himself down upon the sofa, in the recess, by Vane, 
as he added — “Studying a case? You should leave law 


VIOLET. 


47 


in the office with Robert Doe and Richard Roe, when 
you come into society, Harry.” 

“Society!” replied Vane, with asperity. “Call you 
this society? this conglomeration of lace, feathers, and 
artificials? flirting women and baby beaux? Hard at 
work in the office all day, I am not in the humor to laugh 
at folly. I came here seeking relaxation, pleasant ex- 
citement. Asking, begging bread, and society gives me 
a stone! By heaven, a Cooker on in Vienna!’ I’ve 
made up my mind to eschew society altogether. Seeing 
Lizzie Rayford, (who, by-the-way, I am very much sur- 
prised to meet here,) with some difficulty I managed to 
navigate my way through hoops and flounces to the cor- 
ner where she and Laura Cranston were, hut scarcely 
had I joined them, when Ned Redmund claimed Laura 
for the dance then forming. Now for a cozy chat, said 
I, appropriating Laura’s chair; but instead of a plea- 
sant confab about matters and things in general, Lizzie 
fell to preaching” 

“Poor thing! her conscience hurt her for being mixed 
up with us sinners, I suppose ; and she hoped by con- 
verting a lawyer , to cover a multitude of crimes, her own 
along with the rest,” said the Doctor, laughing. 

“She talks well, and told some pungent truths,” con- 
tinued Vane; “but,” he added, in a disgusted tone, 
“when I looked at the preacher, tricked out in ball- 
room finery, I came very near being guilty of the imper- 
tinence of telling her, 4 Physician , heal thyself ; it vexed 
me; I really like the girl.” 

“ Devoted!” and Theodore looked toward the door; 
Vane gave a quick glance, and turning very pale, and 
then as red, his brows knit and his features working, he 
reached up to the wreath around the picture-frame above 


48 


VIOLET. 


his head, broke off a branch, and struck it so smartly 
against his gloved hand that the floor around was strewn 
with the starry bells. 

“The party is breaking up,” he said rising; and link- 
ing his arm in the Doctor’s the young men quitted the 
room in quest of the ladies. 

Carriages driving to the door; hackmen smacking 
their whips ; wheels locking ; ladies shrieking ; gentlemen 
scolding ; an occasional oath in broad Irish, and the day- 
light dance was with the things that have been. 

There was a small sociable at Mrs. Seaton’s that 
evening. Lizzie Rayford was one of the party, and 
remained to the last. It was almost morning when, 
laying aside her gay trappings, she sat down to read her 
Bible. Drinking of the well of living water, yet sip- 
ping from the broken cistern, she enjoyed neither. 
Prayer and praise had become a dull round of formal 
observances. Gone was the peace which flowed from a 
sense of pardoned sin and acceptance with God. The 
fervor of the Royal Psalmist no longer awakened a glow 
of devotion in the divided heart. 

“Would it were with me as in times past !” sighed the 
poor girl, as, weary and dispirited, her hands clasped to- 
gether on the table before her, her head bent down upon 
them, she remained some time buried in thought. The 
first -words her eyes fell upon when she opened her Bible 
were, “Son, give me thy heart.” “An honest, whole 
heart,” murmured the conscience-stricken girl. “Oh, 
that I had never allowed myself to be persuaded to enter 
‘the debatable land!' Partake in moderation ! Have I 
not done so? Alas! small doses of poison undermine 
the constitution, and prove as fatal as the large. Go as 
a missionary into the world; benefit others by my influ- 


VIOLET. 


49 


ence : miserable sophistry. My inconsistent course has 
grieved many a kind Christian heart, hut who have I bene- 
fited ? What good have I effected in the gay world ? Had 
Peter been praying with the disciples, instead of warm- 
ing himself at the fire with scoffers, would he have de- 
nied his Lord ? What have I been doing ? 

Had I, as a faithful missionary, spoken in those brilliant 
circles of the crucified , had I condemned the profane ex- 
clamations, reproved their extravagance, their insincerity, 
would they have borne with me ? How could I, when my 
own dress was in keeping with theirs ? It would, indeed, 
have been Satan reproving sin. By joining in their fri- 
volities, I have proved to the world that the pleasures of 
religion did not satisfy me, or at least given it reason to 
conclude so ; for, God knows, I was happier, oh ! far hap- 
pier, before I entered into this heartless dissipation. 
Weak minded! Yes, let them call me so; I am weak, 
contemptibly weak — mad — to fear the ‘world’s dread 
laugh’ more than the anger of God. Fanatic Pharisee! 
Do I shrink from a term of reproach when reviled, spat 
upon, wounded, scoffed at for my sins ? My Saviour died 
for nte! Ashamed of thee , 0 blessed Jesus! Were 
there no sorrowing to comfort, that my day should have 
been spent thus? no starving to feed, that I should 
squander money upon dress?” and with brimming eyes 
Lizzie gazed at the expensively trimmed silk lying on 
the sofa. “ Suppose at this moment I was to hear the 
awful summons — c Thou fool ! this night is thy soul re- 
quired of thee.’ God be merciful unto me, a sinner;” 
and in contrition and deep self-loathing, the tears cours- 
ing down her cheeks, Lizzie fell down upon her knees 
and offered herself body and soul to Him who shed his 
blood to wash away her sins; a consecration uncon- 


50 


VIOLET. 


ditional, entire, without reservation. The calm, the 
peace that filled the heart so long distracted by the vain 
attempt to serve two masters, must be experienced to be 
understood or appreciated. 

The matinde was Lizzie’s last party. 

******** 

True to her promise of doing all she could to assist 
Mr. Gray in eradicating from his daughter’s mind the 
ridiculous notions instilled by Mrs. Ives, Mrs. Irving had 
Meta as frequently as possible with her; took her to 
drive, to concerts, and to make visits. She was passing 
the day there, when Mrs. Seaton and Belle came in, — the 
daughter calm and smiling as usual ; the mother all in a 
flutter. 

“How do you all do?” and nodding to Meta and Vio- 
let, and shaking hands with Mrs. Irving, Mrs. Seaton 
threw herself into the nearest comfortable chair, drew 
a foot-cushion to her, and, resting her French boots on 
it, said, with a fagged smile, “Excuse me, girls, I am 
too crushed and tired to shake hands; we’ve been se- 
curing bargains these hard times;” and opening a small 
package, she displayed a quantity of exquisite lace. 
“Belle, show Mrs. Irving the veils; perfect loves ; quite 
as pretty as Mrs. Arlington’s, that she gave $100 for in 
Paris, for $3(T and $45. By-the-way of bargains, I must 
read you Julia’s letter; she says things are much worse 
in New York than with us,” and Mrs. Seaton put her 
hand in her pocket. “I havn’t it; I must have left it 
at home; I’m sorry, it was very droll; poor girl! she 
had well-nigh fallen a martyr" to bargains. Some one, - 
I’ve forgotten who, was selling off at ridiculously low 
prices, 4 without regard to cost ,’ as they say in the shop 
windows. So dense a crowd collected a square above 


VIOLET. 


51 


and a square below the store, the press around the sus- 
pended banks, from her account, was nothing to it. The 
police had to be called in to prevent the bargain-seekers 
from crushing one another to death. Julia says it was 
amusing to see elegantly-dressed, delicate females, with 
great bundles in their arms, forcing their way through 
the crowd. There was no ‘sending home’ that day; 
each purchaser was obliged to put forth her strength and 
be her own porter.” 

“Everybody seems to be failing and selling off,” re- 
marked Mrs. Irving, with a troubled face. “We shall 
have to import our dress and et ceteras ourselves, though 
I suppose, as the banks have suspended, so must we.” 

“Offer a premium, and no doubt some smart Yankee 
will discover Dominie Sampson’s secret: his clothes, 
you remember, never wore out,” said Mrs. Seaton.” 

“ Oh, that is all very well for a novel, Mrs. Seaton, 
but” — and Violet held up her dress — “mine not only 
wear out, but tear out terribly; look here?” and laugh- 
ing, she exhibited the demolished flounces. 

“Oh, you own a black Grolconda, dear. Coal is a 
buried treasure which can always be turned into cash,” 
remarked Mrs. Seaton; “but I am a paper woman; to- 
morrow, this moment, for aught I know, I may be pro- 
tested, gone to flinders, not worth a cent! There is 
no anticipating who will fail next; the world seems 
becoming bankrupt; thank heaven we shall be in good 
company; Russia and England, it is said, will soon be 
among the list ; my husband talks of nothing but failing ; 

.1 really believe the man’s demented; I’m tired of my 
cashmere, and I wanted to get a new one for Belle, and 
when I asked him for $2000 this morning, he absolutely 
refused, and raved about extravagance until he gave me 


52 


VIOLET. 


a headache. To camel’s hair and diamonds, he says, we 
owe the ruin of the country; just as if men do not throw 
away thousands and tens of thousands on horses, and 
wine, and cigars, and such trash; besides dinners, clubs, 
billiards, ecartd, and various et ceteras never entered in 
account-books. His sympathies are so much roused in 
behalf of the working class. You must not be surprised 
to hear we have opened a soup house at No. — Spruce 
Street ; I’m disgusted with the word retrenchment. He 
wants us to suspend desert, substitute mutton for game, 
and levy chintzes for brocades. It is perfectly absurd ! 
His extravagant economy diverts me as much as my 
bargains annoy him. If this state of affairs continue, I 
shall certainly sue for a divorce.” 

“ Apropos of extravagance,” remarked Mrs. Irving, 
“our carpenter’s daughter was at the opera last night, 
in an imitation cashmere, which could not have cost less 
than $30.” 

“Oh, dress is quite a disease at present, an alarming 
epidemic. Belle came near being knocked down by a 
frowsy washerwoman, in immense hoops, carrying home 
a basket of clothes; her great red face almost hid by 
dirty flowers,” said Mrs. Seaton; “and I think you said, 
Belle, highly perfumed with whisky?” 

Belle gave a shuddering assent, and, turning to Violet 
and Meta — 

“Think of our parading Chestnut Street in levy cali- 
coes, girls !” she said, smiling her sweet moonlight gleam, 
and looking placid, as if resigning herself to some plea- 
sant imagination. 

“Papa thinks the times very alarming,” remarked 
Meta, “and that the crisis is yet to come.” 

“Don’t let him frighten you, dear,” interposed Violet, 


VIOLET. 


53 


“ about the crisis ; men always talk so : I was born in a 
crisis, brought up in a crisis, and expect to die in a cri- 
sis; ‘now a bubble bursts, and now a world;’ but every- 
thing, as far as I can see, goes on the same for a that 
and the pretty creature raised her shoulders the least bit 
in the world, and gave her head a coquettish little toss 
that became her exceedingly. 

“What does Mrs. Ives say of the times?” inquired 
Mrs. Irving. 

“That He who commands the storm is at the helm,” 
replied Meta. “She fears no evil.” 

“ Happy woman !” and Mrs. Irving’s lip curled slightly. 
“I presume she does not bolt her doors at night?” 

“Mrs. Ives is not a fatalist!” and Meta’s color rose, 
for she was aware of the opinion the set entertained of 
her friend ; she knew, too, the obligations Mrs. Irving 
was under to Mrs. Ives; but, commanding herself, she 
went on to say, with less asperity, “Mrs. Ives practices 
the advice of the good divine, who recommends that we 
act as though all depended upon our exertions, and leave 
the result to Heaven.” 

“I have scarcely seen her since Mr. Ives’s death,” 
remarked Mrs. Irving; “she is so taken up with the 
poor.” 

“She visits only the sick and afflicted,” replied Meta, 
“though if you would call, I’m sure she would be pleased 
to see you ; she often speaks of you, and most kindly ; 
but you are very hoarse, Mrs. Irving?” 

“Only a slight cold.” 

“ Grandmamma is perfectly atrocious in her treatment 
of herself,” said Violet, letting down the curtain at Mrs. 
Irving’s back; “if there is a draft in the room, she al- 
ways contrives to get into it.” 

6 


54 


VIOLET. 


“I shall be well enough to-morrow,” coughed Mrs. 
Irving. “ Heavens , what a sharp pain !” and she pressed 
her hand to her side. 

“ Grandmamma, you won’t go to Mrs. Arlington’s to- 
night?” Violet inquired in a tone of anxious entreaty. 
“Mrs. Seaton, do make her promise she won’t.” 

“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing; it’s only a little dys- 
peptic twinge ; I’ll call for you at ten;” and, shaking 
hands, Mrs. Seaton and Belle made their adieus. But, 
returning to where Mrs. Seaton was standing, “I forgot 
to tell you, dear,” she said, “poor Mrs. Deleville is per- 
fectly in despair at the shocking reports about Sophy; 
it is really distressing to see her, poor soul ; she is nearly 
frantic.” 

“Poh, poh!” said Mrs. Irving, laughing; “tell her to 
give a ball, have a full hand, a sumptuous supper, and 
ask everybody; they’ll all come, and, thus committed, 
will have to visit them afterwards ; the reports will die 
out.” 

“Good-bye! we will talk it over to-night;” and, 
smiling, Mrs. Seaton hurried after Belle. 


VIOLET. 


55 


CHAPTER III. 

A few days after the party, Mrs. Ives was surprised 
by a note from Violet. Mrs. Irving was ill, extremely 
ill, and entreated she would come to her immediately. 
The supposed cold proved to be pneumonia. Years 
of neglect and ingratitude were forgotten; the indul- 
gent friend hastened to her. The street before the 
house was covered with tan; the bell tied up. John met 
her at the door, and Clemence, Violet’s quondam nurse, 
was waiting to conduct her to the sufferer. Mrs. Ives 
was not superstitious or fanciful, but death seemed to 
have entered before her; the thick velvet carpet yield- 
ing to the tread, gave out no sound of footstep; as they 
ascended the wide stairs, the unnatural stillness of the 
gay house oppressed her ; Violet met her in the entry. 

“ Excuse me,” she whispered, choking back her tears, 
“but for Heaven’s sake, Mrs. Irving, say nothing to 
alarm grandmamma ; she is extremely ill , and dreadfully 
nervous.” - 

Poor girl ! pale and haggard, her eyes red and swollen 
with incessant weeping, and great dark circles around 
them, she was so unlike herself that Mrs. Ives hardly re- 
cognized her. 

“I hope, dear, your fears exaggerate your grandmo- 
ther’s danger.” 

Violet shook her head despondingly, and, rushing past 
to her chamber, Mrs. Ives heard her sobbing as she closed 
the door behind her. 


56 


VIOLET. 


“Die.! heavens! she will not die! Dear, dear grand- 
mamma !” and the poor girl walked about the room wring- 
ing her hands distractedly, repeating to herself “She 
will not die. God will not, Oh no, he will not, make 
me so miserable ! so very , very wretched ! He will not 
leave me all alone in the wide world!” 

In all her dreams of prospective happiness, her dear 
grandmother was included ; the jtossibility of her dying 
had never once crossed Violet’s mind; they had never 
been separated, and she could imagine no life apart from 
her. No wonder the loving girl was almost crazed by 
the sudden, the overwhelming affliction. 

To steal noiselessly into the darkened chamber, listen 
with sickening apprehension to the sufferer’s labored 
breathing, peep at her through the half-closed curtains, 
and rush back to her room to give vent to an agony of 
tears, was Violet’s life, since she suspected Mrs. Irving’s 
danger. In vain the old French nurse, who loved her 
as if she was her own child, implored her to eat something. 
Loathing the very smell of food, she turned from it with 
disgust; although, to gratify Clemence, she forced her- 
self to swallow occasionally a cup of coffee or a few 
mouthsful of soup. Exhausted and worn out, if for a 
moment she threw herself on the bed, ere Clemence 
could close the curtains and let down the blinds, she was 
up again, pacing the floor, weeping bitterly. 

Turning the knob of the door very gently, Mrs. Ives 
entered the sick room and approached the bed. Mrs. 
Irving was awake, and, putting aside the curtain, asked, 
in a feeble voice, — 

“Is that you, Lucy? I am very ill!” and the eager, 
inquiring look said, “ Oh, tell me, in mercy tell me, it is 
not so!” 


VIOLET. 


57 


But Mrs. Ives was too conscientious to give the slight- 
est hope when death was stamped upon every lineament 
of the beautiful face : a deeper despondency overshadowed 
it as, finding Mrs. Ives did not reply, Mrs. Irving pro- 
ceeded with — 

“Dr. Morgan will not allow I am in danger; it’s his 
way ; you know he never does. Afraid of alarming me, 
people tell me anything they think will quiet my nerves. 
But you will not deceive me, Lucy ? Will you see the 
Doctor for me, and get his candid opinion? Make him 
tell you; insist upon it. Oh, Lucy, if I should die; to 
leave all we love and go we know not whither!” and 
Mrs. Irving, bursting into tears, hid her face in the pil- 
lows. 

“That is the unhappy fate of the poor heathen, An- 
nie ; but, dear, to us hath not Christ said, ‘ Where I am, 
there shall ye be also?’ The Christian ‘Hath a house 
not made with hands eternal in the heavens,’ and the 
blessed assurance that ‘It hath not entered into the 
heart of man to conceive the happiness’ awaiting him in 
that better land.” 

“Yes, but I am not a Christian, Lucy; had my poor 

mother lived But there is Dr. Morgan coming up 

stairs; tak£ him in the dressing-room; make him tell 
you.” 

With a sad heart Mrs. Ives obeyed. 

“It is not for man heaven’s gate to close, 

Or say how far the stream of mercy flows.” 

But the Bible contains not one promise for an unrepent- 
ant death-bed. “ Deeply has her cup been drugged, that 
she might seek the ‘living water, of which, if a man 
drinketh, he thirsteth no more forever;’ yet loathing, nau- 
6 * 


58 


VIOLET. 


seating, she has emptied it to its bitter dregs!” thought 
Mrs. Ives, “and, alas! conscious demerit, the fear of 
punishment will avail nothing. The Devils ‘ believe and 
tremble!’ Poor, poor Annie! will she have time, will 
she have grace to repent?” With these thoughts in her 
heart, Mrs. Ives confronted the jocular Doctor at the 
head of the stairs. He was evidently surprised at see- 
ing her there, but before he spoke — 

“This way, if you please,” she said, shaking hands 
and pointing to the dressing-room ; and, closing the door 
after them, asked him if he did not think Mrs. Irving 
alarmingly ill. 

“She is very much alarmed about herself,” was the 
evasive answer, “ and there must be no sad faces around 
her ; her friends must be cheerful as possible, and do all 
they can to raise her spirits; it is all-important she 
should not suspect you think her in danger.” 

“Doctor,” said Mrs. Ives, solemnly, “dare you assume 
the responsibility of sending an unprepared soul into 
eternity?” * 

The hopeful smile, fixed as if a man of wood it had 
been carved in his face, faded as he replied, hurriedly, — 
“I have not seen her since morning; I will be back 
again;” and he hurried from the room. 

The Doctor was at his old tricks, but he could not 
elude Mrs. Ives ; she was waiting for him at the dress- 
ing-room door, and beckoned him in as he was slily slip- 
ping down stairs. 

“How do you find her?” she anxiously questioned. 

The Doctor hesitated a moment ere he replied, — 
“Madam, I will be frank with you: her condition is 
unchanged; her heart and lungs are seriously affected; 
she cannot live.” 


VIOLET. 


59 


“It is, then, as I feared!” exclaimed Mrs. Ives, ex- 
tremely shocked, notwithstanding her sad prognostics. 
“How long do yon think she will linger, Doctor?” 

“ Six weeks, or possibly two months, if her nervous 
system could be got into a better condition; but this ex- 
treme agitation is killing her, and I warn you, Mrs. Ives, 
as any sudden accession may prove fatal on the instant.” 

“I shall endeavor to he prudent,” replied Mrs. Ives, 
greatly distressed. 

“Mrs. Ives,” and Dr. Morgan drew a chair near that 
she had just taken, “you may murder her, hut it is too 
late now to prepare her for heaven. I have seen too 
much of death-bed repentance to have the slightest re- 
liance upon it. But a few weeks since, I witnessed 
a case in point: a young man who, up to the time of 
his illness, had never given religion a thought, believ- 
ing he had only a few hpurs to live, bent all his ener- 
gies to make his peace with God, and thought and talked 
of nothing else ; his prayer w r as heard ; he professed not 
only to feel his sins forgiven, but was in a most joyful 
state of mind. Madam, it was what is termed a trium- 
phant death-bed. The poor mother, in her gratitude, 
forgot her approaching bereavement. But the hand of 
death was stayed. To our astonishment, the young man 
began to recover, and, strange to say, talked no more of 
religion; and when his mother referred to the subject, 
judge her surprise when he declared he had not the 
slightest recollection of the circumstance: it was the 
hallucination of delirium. Many persons infer, from a 
calm death, that all is well with the dying; but the 
physic has a great deal to do in such cases; the brain 
not unfrequently dies first ; remedies tend to soothe ; in 
nine cases out of ten, tranquillity is the result of ex- 


60 


VIOLET. 


treme bodily weakness. In my opinion, the only ra- 
tional hope of happiness hereafter is that based upon a 
consistent, pious life.” 

“Such, then, is the result of your experience,” re- 
plied Mrs. Ives. 

“ Decidedly , Madam.” 

There was sorrow as well as reproof in Mrs. Ives’s 
glance, as she said, “Doctor, may I take the liberty of 
an old friend, and ask what use you are making of this 
knowledge? What am I to think?” 

Dr. Morgan colored and bit his lip, but instantly re- 
covering his sang-froid , replied in his usual jesting way, 
“Think? my dear Mrs. Ives; why, that you and I are 
doing all the good we can, in our way;” and with his 
habitual smile he bowed himself out of the room. 

In an agony of suspense Mrs. Irving awaited her sen- 
tence. Too weak almost to r^ise her head from the pil- 
low to take nourishment, in her excitement she had 
started up in bed, drawn aside the curtain, and, her face 
flushed, her eyes dilated, she listened for the approach- 
ing footstep. The door opened : one look at the tearful, 
half-averted face, and the curtain dropped from her 
trembling hand; with a piercing shriek she fell back in 
a deep swoon upon the pillows. 

Dr. Morgan, anticipating a scene, lingered on the 
stairs, and, hearing the shriek, hurried to Mrs. Ives’s 
assistance: restoratives were administered, and, as soon 
as the patient was in some degree tranquilized, address- 
ing himself to Mrs. Irving, and glancing reproof at her 
friend, he said, somewhat impatiently, — “You asked me 
just now when you would be well; by Jove, if you give 
way to this nervousness, Madam, you never will.” 

“I knew it, Doctor,” groaned poor Mrs. Irving; “I 


VIOLET. 


61 


knew you thought I would die; I saw it the moment 
Lucy entered the room.” 

“You have remarkably fine eyes, Madam,” responded 
the Doctor, cheerfully; “for aught I can tell to the con- 
trary, you may bury us both;” and smiling, he bowed 
and quitted the room, believing in his heart she would 
not be alive that day week. 

Encouraged by his manner, and lulled by the mor- 
phine, Mrs. Irving soon fell asleep. Mrs. Ives sat by 
the bed, watching her and praying for her. A slight 
rustle of drapery, and Violet stole softly in and stood 
for a moment looking at her grandmother ; she was lay- 
ing very quietly just then. 

“She is better, she is not near so restless, and has a 
good color,” whispered the poor girl, looking so happy, 
Mrs. Ives could not find it in her heart to destroy the 
fallacious hope; and Violet construed her silence into 
assent, as she glided through the door, closing it softly. 

Mrs. Irving moved, her eyelids quivered, and tears 
trickled slowly down her hectic cheeks. Her first words 
on awaking were, — “Tell me, what did he say?” 

“Why agitate yourself thus, dear Annie? doctors are 
often mistaken. Would it not be better to prepare for 
an event which, sooner or later, happeneth to all, and, 
when met in hope, is a blessing?” 

“Great God!” gasped Mrs. Irving, “then he thinks 
I will die! I knew it as soon as I saw you ! Yet, cruel 
man, how could he smile and be so cheerful if he thought 
so? He seemed most uneasy about my nervousness; 
people never die of that; I do feel very badly, very 
weak, but I am only nervous; don’t you see I am?” 

“Try not to give way to it, dear; endeavor to com- 
pose yourself, and redeem the time that remains.” 


62 


VIOLET. 


“ Compose myself! Lucy, you hear not the awful 
words ringing in my ears.” 

“What are they?” asked Mrs. Ives, fearing she was 
becoming delirious. 

“Because I have called, and ye refused to hear; I 
stretched out my hand, and ye would none of my re- 
proofs; I will laugh when your fear cometh,” replied 
Mrs. Irving, wildly. “Oh, God, it has come!” she 
gasped out. “It is upon me! an angry God; an eternity 
of hopeless, endless woe,” she continued in broken ac- 
cents, wringing her hands, and bursting into tears. 
“What a prospect!” 

The agony of spirit depicted on the face of the beauti- 
ful woman wrung the heart of Mrs. Ives, for she knew 
the proud woman, and that great indeed must be the 
mental suffering which extorted such acknowledgments. 
With difficulty she commanded her own feelings, as, 
alarmed at the agitation from which the Doctor prog- 
nosticated such fatal results, she hastily poured out a 
composing mixture and held it to Mrs. Irving’s lips. 

“Lucy,” said the unhappy sufferer, “pain is nothing 
to what I am enduring; but I have that, too, — sharp, 
racking pains;” and as she spoke, Mrs. Irving pressed 
her hand to her forehead, her side, her chest. “I can 
hardly get my breath ! What is to become of me ? what 
shall I do?” 

“Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt he 
saved,” faltered Mrs. Ives, unable longer to restrain her 
te^rs. 

“I do; I always have believed in Him.” 

“A historic faith, dear Annie. You believe that the 
Word was made flesh, and dwelt among men, and that 
Christ the Son of God was crucified for the sins of the 


VIOLET. 


63 


world; but a saving faith is an appropriating faith. Do 
you feel that Christ is your Saviour ? and if you do, 
why are you so distressed?” 

“The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. 
That was the text which afforded my poor mother the ut- 
most comfort on her death-bed,” said Mrs. Irving. “I 
shall never forget her seraphic smile when, repeating it, 
she raised her eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, ‘ 0 death, 
where is thy sting?’ But my life has been very differ- 
ent from hers. Like Ephraim I have been joined to my 
idols, and like him shall I perish.” 

“ Oh no ; our blessed Lord says, ‘ Whoso cometh unto 
me I will in no wise cast out.’ ” 

“Too late, too late! there is no time to work now; 
the eleventh hour is almost gone.” 

“Suppose, Annie, you were at sea, had fallen over- 
board, were sinking, had sunk once, twice, and, when 
going down the third time, a stout swimmer, grasping 
you by the hair of the head, drew you from the waves ; 
would you think you had saved yourself?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“Well, dear, just so helpless is our condition; ‘dead 
in trespass and sins,’ Christ must save or we perish! 

‘ By grace are ye saved, not of ourselves, it is the gift of 
God.’ ” 

“But we are commanded to work out our salvation 
with fear and trembling,” said Mrs. Irving, who could 
not plead ignorance in extenuation of her neglect of 
duty. 

“Why?” replied her friend. “‘Because it is G-od 
who works in us to will and to do of His good pleasure.’ 
Not that God will convert any one against their will. 
You remember our Saviour’s touching lamentation over 


64 


VIOLET. 


the doomed city ? — *0 Jerusalem! Jerusalem! how often 
would I have gathered thee as a hen gathereth her chick- 
ens under her wings, but ye would not.' Nevertheless are 
we to work, and, as an encouragement, are assured, 4 Who- 
soever shall give even a cup of cold water in His name, 
the same shall receive a prophet’s reward.’ And again, 
4 Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest 
from their labors, and their works do follow them;’ ob- 
serve dear, the works do not go before to open heaven 
to us, but follow to receive the promised reward. It 
is 4 the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world for 
the remission of sin’ who reconciles an offended God. 
The holiest life, the martyr’s death, evince the Chris- 
tian’s sincerity, but give not the slightest claim to 
heaven. It is in the righteousness of the Sinless we 
must be clothed when we receive the blessed welcome, 
4 Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord,’ and remember, 
Christ died for sinners." 

44 Then have we nothing to do but to believe?” 

44 Nothing , so far as our salvation is concerned. We 
are saved by Christ alone , but we have much , very much 
to do in preparing for the enjoyment of heaven. If we 
accept salvation we love the Saviour, and Christ’s test is, 
4 If ye love me, keep my commandments.’ And again, 
4 Unless ye have my spirit, ye are none of mine.’ Is it 
a light work to keep these commandments, to bring the 
stubborn will into subjection; an easy thing to be meek, 
and lowly, and long suffering ? Annie, I believe this to 
be 4 the struggling to enter in at the straight gate;’ our 
good works the means of increasing the bliss of heaven, 
and the treasure we are to lay, up there 4 Where moth 
doth not corrupt, or thief break through and steal.’ We 
are told in Scripture, 4 As one star differeth from an- 


VIOLET. 


65 


other in glory,’ so will it be with the redeemed. By 
way of making my idea clear, if you will allow so homely 
an illustration, suppose I fill this wine-glass with water 
to the brim, it can contain no more; and this tumbler, 
each will be full according to its capacity ; thus shall each 
be happy according to their capacity, as we are capable 
of being, — some large, some small vessels.” 

“But If I have no good works to follow we,” 
groaned poor Mrs. Irving. “Free as salvation is, it is 
not for me /” 

“This is a stratagem of the wily adversary, dear An- 
nie. Have you forgotten the prodigal son who wasted 
his substance ? Did not the father see him afar off, and 
run to meet him? Is there not 4 Joy in heaven over a 
sinner that repenteth?’ Hath not ‘God so loved the 
world that he gave his only begotten Son, that those 
who believe in him should not perish, but have everlast- 
ing life?’ And does not our blessed Lord himself tell 
us, as if to meet your very state of mind, ‘ If ye, being 
evil, know hew to give good gifts unto your children, 
how much more shall your Heavenly Father give good 
things to them that ask him?’ ” 

Mrs. Irving seemed deeply interested, and wept a 
great deal, and, encouraged, Mrs. Ives proceeded. — 
“ Come in faith, as a little, loving, trusting child throws 
itself into its father’s arms ; come, and in the words of 
the humble Publican say, ‘ God be merciful to me a sin- 
ner.’ Urge the sinner’s plea; no mortal man hath any 
other to lay before his God. Your Redeemer is to be 
your judge. Will He, think you, who died to save, be 
extreme to mark offences ? Hear what he says : ‘ Whoso 
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ ‘Ask and ye 
shall receive, knock and it shall be opened unto you.’ 

7 


66 


VIOLET. 


Can there be freer, more unconditional invitations? 
‘ Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest .’ ” 

“Oh, Lucy! if I had only seen more of you,” sobbed 
Mrs. Irving; “but your example condemned me, your 
exhortations irritated and made me uncomfortable, my 
own sophistries failed to satisfy me, and the only way to 
escape from the annoyance was to avoid your society.” 

“Why did I not know this sooner?” exclaimed Mrs. 
Ives, deeply affected; “had I suspected it, I would not 
have allowed myself to be refused; I should have come 
again and again, forced my way to you, pleaded with 
you to have mercy on your soul; but,” — and command- 
ing herself by an effort, and speaking more cheerfully, — 
“we have done with the past; it is not ours; let us think 
of the present.” 

“Enfeebled in body and mind, racked with pain, and 
distracted as I am, I can do nothing,” replied Mrs. Ir- 
ving, in a tone of hopeless despondency. 

“Annie, dear Annie, did our Lord bid the fishermen 
cast aside their coarse garments? He simply said, ‘Fol- 
low thou me, and I will make thee fishers of men.’ To 
Matthew, sitting at the receipt of custom, ‘Follow thou 
me; and straightway Matthew arose and followed him.’ 
We hear nothing of his collecting his money, or washing 
his hands, or changing his apparel. ‘ The leopard can- 
not change his spots, or the Ethiopian his skin.’ ‘It is 
the Holy Spirit that calls, quickens, sanctifies, begins, 
and finishes the work of redemption,’ Shall we beseech 
God to vouchsafe us that spirit?” 

Mrs. Irving made a tearful assent, and, kneeling by 
the bedside, fervently did the excellent widow supplicate 


VIOLET. 


67 


God in behalf of the unhappy friend who had so long 
ceased to pray for herself. 

Mrs. Irving would not consent to having a hired nurse. 
Poor Violet, perfectly unacquainted with illness, and dis- 
tracted by anxiety, was altogether incompetent to render 
any assistance ; her very presence in the room affected 
her grandmother so much that the Doctor prohibited 
her being there for more than a few moments at a time. 
Clemence had lived many years in the family, and, really 
attached to Mrs. Irving, would have been a very good 
nurse, had her way of doing things not been enough to 
try a saint. If she shook up a pillow, smoothed the 
bed-spread, stirred the fire, drew down a blind, handed 
a tumbler of water or a chair, or closed a door, the 
Frenchwoman’s manner said distinctly to the reci- 
pient of the favor, “ While you live , never forget the 
obligation.” Poor Mrs. Irving, nervous and irritable, 
was completely overwhelmed. Mrs. Ives observed it, 
and kindly offered her services, which were most thank- 
fully accepted, and, thus established by the death-bed, 
she had an opportunity of conversing upon the all-import- 
ant topic whenever her friend’s strength would admit of 
it. Violet, though deeply grateful for the excellent 
widow’s unremitting kindness, disapproved altogether of 
the Bible readings, prayers, and long religious discus- 
sions. 

“I am sure it is all this croaking that keeps grand- 
mamma so low and nervous,” she would often say to 
Clemence, who, more gesticular than wordy , would 
shrug her shoulders, elevate her bushy brows, and reply 
with her peculiar under-breath chuckle, in broken Eng- 
lish, glancing at Mrs. Ives, U I vish Madame fall ovar 


68 


VIOLET. 


someting in dis room she keep so dark, and crasser her 

leg.” 

If the good widow cleared her throat, or sneezed, the 
malcontents flattered themselves it was a premonition of 
the prevailing influenza. 

Meanwhile, in tremulous anxiety for her unhappy 
friend, she wrote bitter things against herself for what 
she considered her neglect of duty toward one so sur- 
rounded as Mrs. Irving was, by temptation ; and it was 
fearful to hear the poor sufferer’s confessions of a life-long 
struggle against powerful convictions; while at times, 
even now, seeming almost to blame God for not convert- 
ing her against her will. Mrs. Ives strove to bring her 
friend to that true penitence which exclaims, “ Against 
Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight, 
that thou mightest be justified when thou judgest;” 
to the self-abnegation which resigns itself into the 
hands of God, convinced, even should the soul perish, it 
would only suffer its deserts ; and that love of holiness 
which extorted from St. Paul the strong exclamation, 
“ When shall I be rid of this body of sin?” In short, 
to genuine contrition which is followed by Christ’s being 
revealed in His fulness, and that sense of pardoning love, 
and spirit of adoption, which cries in the renewed heart, 
“ Abba Father /” but all in vain. Poor Mrs. Irving’s 
state of mind was rather “the fearful looking for of 
judgment, foretold as the doom of the scorner. 

There is a vulgar old proverb which you may have 
heard during a summer’s rustication, namely: ‘That bad 
wishes, like chickens, come home to roost.” In this case 
it did not prove correct; the unkind wishes roosted on 
the old widow. Sneezing, coughing, and feverish, how- 
ever, Mrs. Ives still kept faithful to her post, until Meta, 


VIOLET. 


69 


who called frequently to inquire after Mrs. Irving, finding 
her so unwell, insisted upon her going home and being 
nursed herself, and, after having seen her comfortably 
bestowed in bed, drove first to Dr. Morgan’s, and then 
to the counting-house, to obtain her father’s permission 
to remain with her until she was better. Amused at the 
idea of Meta’s nursing, Mr. Gray queried what she knew 
about applying cataplasms and dressing blisters ? 

“I hope she will not require such cruelties,” replied 
Meta, smiling. “But, papa, we all need cheering when 
we are ill.” 

The father, who had his reasons for wishing to keep 
the two apart as much as possible, affecting jealousy, re- 
plied, with an attempt at playfulness, “No, no, Meta; 
‘the bird that we nurse is the bird that we love;’ you are 
too fond of Mrs. Ives already; I’ll never get you home 
again.” 

Mr. Gray was standing on the curb-stone ; Meta lean- 
ing down to him from the window of- the low carriage. 
“Come in, papa, do come in, I wan’t to talk to you;” 
and she opened the door as she spoke. 

“No, thank you, bonnie lassie,” said Mr. Gray, step- 
ping back; “you’ll begin kissing and crying, and carry 
your point. There, didn’t I say so?” and, as he spoke, 
he peeped into her bewildering eyes as if he really saw 
the tears which, in truth, Meta could scarcely'keep back. 
Light as was his tone, she saw that her father was an- 
noyed, and, looking very sad, she said, — 

“I am sorry, papa, she has always been so kind to 
me ; if I was sick, she would not leave me night or day.” 
Mr. Gray smiled incredulously. “ Oh, papa, you re- 
member tvhen I had the measles?” and Meta’s tears did 
7 * 


TO 


VIOLET. 


come then in a shower. Mr. Gray never could stand 
the sight of distress. 

“'Well, if you desire it so much, go for a day or two,” 
he said, advancing to the carriage and kissing her ; “but 
remember, you’re not to sit up at night; promise me 
that; as it is, I’m afraid you’ll be ill before the week’s 
over.” 

“I will attend to your wishes, dear, good papa;” and 
Meta returned the kiss with interest, in her delight, 
thanking him again and again for the indulgence which 
she knew cost him an effort to accord. 

It was a charming surprise to Mrs. Ives to have her 
dear Meta with her, though but for a day or two, and 
she declared it quite a temptation to continue ill. At 
first she seemed suffering only from severe influenza, and 
they had a nice time talking over so many things deeply 
interesting to both. Speaking one day of her lonely life, 
Meta told Mrs. Ives it distressed her to think she should 
be thus companionless, especially in long, dull, wet spells, 
and when, as at present, she was ill. 

“Reach me that book on the table, dear, please,” 
said the good widow, with a smile. “Thank you;” and, 
opening at a pencil-marked paragraph, she (handing it 
back to Meta) requested her to read it, and in her sweet, 
clear voice Meta read — 

“Just as a mother, with sweet, smiling face, 

Yearns toward her little children, from her seat 
Takes this upon her knees, that at her feet, 

And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences, 

She learns their feelings and their various will, — 

To this, a look, to that, a word dispenses ; 

And whether stern or smiling, loves them still. 

So Providence, high, infinite — 

Makes our necessities His watchful care, 


VIOLET. 


71 


Harkens to all our prayers, kelps all our wants, 

And even if it denies what seems our right, 

Either denies because it would have us ask, 

Or seeming to deny, and in denying grants.” 

“With almost every tie to earth severed,” said Mrs. 
Ives, when she had finished, “ still my recreant heart, 
sending forth fresh tendrils, fastens on human love. 
Dear child, I often feel I love you and Ernest too much, 
and this tendency it is, perhaps, which has rendered the 
severe discipline I have suffered necessary. Perverse, 
rebellious, we often create our own misery. Besides, 
darling, you forget this world is not our abiding-place. 
We are hut pilgrims and sojourners, hastening to a bet- 
ter land. To-day we pitch our tents ; to-morrow, strike 
them, and are gone. Is it not folly, then, to grieve that 
the spot whereon we tarry that little moment be not fresh 
and green ? the stream from which we slake our thirst, 
as clear and cool as we could desire? The important 
point, my dear, is, Whither are our footsteps tending?” 

Meta smiled a tearful smile, and stooped down and 
kissed her dear resigned more than parent. Mrs. Ives 
smiled too, and gently patted the rosy cheek that rested 
for the moment on the pillow beside hers, and with the 
fond caress the conversation ended. 

Mrs. Ives’s disease proved to be pneumonia, and soon 
she was as ill as her friend. But there was no gloom in 
the darkened chamber of the old ivy house. Her thin 
hands clasped in silent prayer, a sweet smile on her 
fevered lips, calmly Mrs. Ives awaited the Angel of 
Death. 

“How precious the assurance,” she remarked to Meta 
and faithful old Mary, as they stood weeping by her bed, 
“that neither heights nor depths , nor principalities nor 


72 


VIOLET. 


powers, can separate us from the love of God in Christ. 
The waves of Jordan shall not overwhelm me, neither 
my strength fail me in the dark valley, for ‘ His rod and 
His staff’ will support me ! Darkness? there is no dark- 
ness where Christ is ! Blessed Redeemer ! I shall soon 
see him face to face, and join with angels and archangels 
in singing praises to the Lamb.” 

Her poor, too, were not forgotten, or Mrs. Irving. 
The little articles of nourishment her friend relished 
when she made them for her, prepared under her direc- 
tion, were sent to her as regularly as if she was still her 
nurse ; and Meta was often despatched on errands of 
mercy, with a request to stop and see how she was ; and 
not unfrequently was the dear girl the hearer of a kind 
message or book, with a leaf folded down at the part the 
pious widow thought likely to rouse or comfort the dying 
woman. 

Contrary to Dr. Morgan’s prognostics, Mrs. Ives began 
slowly to recover. Old Mary was never tired of praising 
Meta’s nursing. 

One morning, having assisted Mrs. Ives to the sofa, 
tucked the silk comfortable nicely over her feet, arranged 
the flowers Ernest brought every morning when he came 
to see his aunty, as he called her, and placed the books 
on the stand by the sofa, Meta was going to read to her. 

“Stop a moment, darling; won’t you make some 
arrow-root custard for Mrs. Irving before you begin?” 
said Mrs. Ives. “Ring for the milk; you will find sugar 
and spice in the closet.” 

The milk, sugar, and a few blades of cinnamon were 
soon in the bright, old-fashioned silver porringer, and 
the porringer on the hot ashes, hut boil it would not. 


VIOLET. 


T3 


“Meta, the milk is simmering all away.” said Mrs. 
Ives. 

Meta took off the porringer, drew out more hot ashes, 
and set it on again in a fussy, restless mood, very unusual 
for her. 

“It smokes,” she remarked; “the fire is too far for- 
ward; do lay that front log on top.” 

Meta took up the tongs, but, before she could effect 
the suggested improvement, to her amazement, throwing 
off the comfortable, Mrs. Ives was at the chimney, and 
took the tongs from her. 

As I said before, good Mrs. Ives was not without her 
weaknesses; one was this very passion for tinkering 
the fire. Her firm conviction that she could make a 
better wood fire (she never used coal) than any one else, 
with this innocent vanity uppermost in her mind, and 
exerting the little strength the pneumonia had left her, she 
drew out the under log, and as she did so down came the 
others, scattering the brands’ ends over the hearth, send- 
ing the sparks, ashes, and smoke up into her face, and set- 
ting her to coughing fearfully. Blinded, she dropped the 
tongs and rubbed her smarting eyes; but, coughing and 
weeping, she seized them and set to work again. Little 
things serve to illustrate character. No one who saw 
the excellent woman battling with those refractory logs 
could doubt that, meek and subdued as she was, good 
Mrs. Ives had a will of her own. 

“Something’s on fire!” she said, stopping short in her 
labors, and glancing round; “I smell cotton burning.” 

“Mercy, it’s your wrapper!” cried Meta, pale with 
fright. 

“Don’t come near me!” and, with more strength than 
one would expect from so fragile a being, Mrs. Ives 


74 


VIOLET. 


pushed her off, and strove to extinguish the burning 
dress, now in a blaze, by crushing it in her hands. 

Completely beside herself, Meta rushed to the bell, 
gave a jerk that left the tassel in her hand, then ran to 
the door shrieking for Mary and Jane, then back to the 
wash-stand, and, seizing the pitcher, was about to drench 
Mrs. Ives with cold water, when Mary, hearing the cries, 
hobbled up in time to stay her hand. 

“ You’ll kill her!” she said, taking the pitcher from 
Meta and setting it down on the floor, and, with wonderful 
presence of mind, caught up the rug and threw it around 
Mrs. Ives. “Lie down, lie down, Mam!” and the good 
creature, taking Mrs. Ives by the shoulder, forced her to 
the floor, and held her there until the fire was out. 

Strange as it may appear, instead of its making her 
ill, Mrs. Ives seemed better for the excitement, and for- 
tunately escaped with only a slight burn on her hand. 
To Meta’s surprise, as soon as she was comfortable on 
the sofa, she announced her intention, provided the next 
day was mild, of sending for a carriage, and, wrapping 
up very warmly, to surprise Mrs. Irving by a visit. 

The next day proved a very pleasant one, and, her 
hand enveloped in a pocket-handkerchief, Mrs. Ives 
drove round. 

But imagine her astonishment, after toiling up stairs, 
which, weak as she was, was quite an undertaking, to 
find the Venetian blinds thrown back, window and bed- 
curtains gracefully draped, — in short, the chamber evi- 
dently arranged for visitors; her dying friend on the 
bed dressed most becomingly, looking like a galvanized 
corpse, and beside her, where the Bible used to lie, a 
bouquet of hot-house flowers. Mrs. Ives glanced around, 
and, overcome by her feelings, sank into a chair which 


VIOLET. 


75 


fortunately stood by the bed. Mrs. Irving divined the 
thoughts passing in the pious widow’s mind, and a color, 
bright almost as that of health, for the moment dyed her 
hollow cheeks. The surprise so kindly planned was not 
productive of pleasure to either party. Mrs. Ives saw 
it, as, extending her hand, Mrs. Irving murmured her 
thanks. The all-absorbing subject which occupied them 
when they parted appeared to have passed altogether 
from Mrs. Irving’s thoughts; she never once alluded to it, 
and effectually prevented Mrs. Ives doing so, by talking 
with such nervous rapidity that it was impossible to edge 
in a word, though Mrs. Ives made several attempts. The 
syren Hope was chanting her dulcet strains in the ears 
of the dying woman, and she would listen to nothing else. 

Dr. Morgan, it seems, now only visited as a friend. 
Mrs. Irving was trying Homoeopathic treatment, and, 
fancying herself almost recovering, spoke of going to 
Europe in the summer. A gentle tap at the door, a 
rustle of silk, and pretty Mrs. Vivian swept in. All 
hope of serious conversation was now at an end, and, 
with a sorrowful glance at her infatuated friend, Mrs. 
Ives rose to go. Mrs. Irving understood the look, a 
crimson blush proved it. 

“God have mercy on you!” whispered Mrs. Ives, 
when she kissed her at parting. “Oh, Annie, have 
mercy on yourself ere it be too late!” 

The hand that held hers trembled. Mrs. Irving was 
not altogether lost to feeling. Mrs. Ives thought of their 
schoolgirl days; she thought of the dying hour; and, 
with her heart and eyes brimful, she bent down again, 
and impressing another kiss upon the parched lips, she 
said, in a tone audible only to her infatuated friend, 


76 


VIOLET. 


“ Annie, dear Annie, I shall pray for you,” and hurried 
from the room. 

“I’m glad she’s gone; she’s so good, I’m afraid to 
speak before her,” Mrs. Vivian remarked when Mrs. 
Ives was out of hearing. 

Not so Mrs. Irving; uncomfortable while she remained, 
she wished Mrs. Ives away ; but when she was gone, all 
hope of heaven seemed to have gone with her, and she 
would have given the world to have her back, to be alone 
with her again, if but for a half hour, to get her to pray 
with her, to ask, oh, so many questions which had not 
occurred to her till then. But politeness prevented her 
expressing her feelings; and, imputing her preoccupied 
manner to lassitude, the lively lady rattled on, and, after 
listening awhile to the well-told gossip, Mrs. Irving 
thought perhaps it was as well that it had happened so. 

“ Doubtless you’ve heard the shocking on dit of Mrs. 
Green and the Baron?” 

“Not a syllable.” 

The scandalous tale took some time in the telling. 
Mrs. Vivian had an engagement at two o’clock ; it wanted 
but a few minutes of the time, and she was hurrying 
away, when Mrs. Irving called her back to say she 
would find a card at home for Wednesday evening, Vio- 
let’s birth-day. 

“The poor child has been immured so long in a sick 
room she begins to look quite faded,” said, or rather 
gasped Mrs. Irving, exhausted by talking; “and as I am 
so much better, I have insisted upon having a few friends 
in the evening.” 

“You will not venture down stairs?” inquired Mrs. 
Vivian, looking her surprise. 

“Oh, yes, I am quite well — only weak.” Poor soul! 


VIOLET. 


77 


she had scarcely strength to speak. “You must not 
fail us, dear ; Violet is fagged to death, and you see I 
am incapable of the least exertion.” 

“You may depend upon me,” responded Mrs. Vivian; 
“I always enjoy myself more here than anywhere else. 
Of course you’ll have the Baron, and Nora Green, too? 
Shut up as you are, you’re not expected to be au fait of 
people’s naughty doings. It will be amusing to see how 
they will conduct themselves before the world. Should 
they have the grace to blush, however, we shall never 
discover it through Dora’s rouge and Van Rosen theldt’s 
hair;” and, wafting a kiss to the invalid from the tips of 
her gloved fingers, the gay lady, with a light laugh, 
tripped down stairs, saying to herself, “The woman’s 
mad; she’s dying fast as she can.” 

******** 

The drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company be- 
gan to arrive, the street door bell was constantly ring- 
ing, but, reclining languidly in her luxuriously cushioned 
chair, Mrs. Irving had not the energy to commence 
dressing. 

“Turn the glass, Clemence,” she said feebly, “so that 
I can see myself.” Clemence obeyed. “Heavens! I’m 
a perfect horror; pale as a ghost, and so emaciated!” 
she exclaimed, when she caught a full-length view of 
herself in the cheval glass. “I’m not fit to be seen; I 
can’t go down; you must receive, Violet, and make my 
excuses.” 

“No, dear grandmamma, my birth-day must be spent 
with you; I would not enjoy myself at all without you; 
nobody would. If you’re not well enough, I’ll tell John 
to say so at the door.” 


8 


78 


VIOLET. 


“If I was only dressed!” murmured Mrs. Irving, rest- 
ing her head against the chair. 

“We will make your toilet in a trice, if you allow us, 
grandmamma. Can’t we Clemence?” 

“Oui, Mademoiselle;” and, supported by Violet, the 
little Frenchwoman slipped on the elegant cinnamon- 
colored bayedere robe with black velvet stripes. 

“Sit down, now, grandmamma,” said Violet, assisting 
her tenderly, as if she had been an infant; “it is so long, 
you need not change your slippers; your feet are not 
seen, and if by any chance they are, Queen Victoria, I 
am sure, has not prettier. Clemence, the cap.” 

Setting the coquettish head-dress far back on the poor 
drooping head, and confining it with a couple of pins, 
(tiny birds of paradise of filigree gold and precious 
stones,) Violet smoothed the blond lace, drew it and the 
pink roses closer to the faded cheeks, stepped back a few 
paces, gazed fondly at her grandmother, and added, with 
a sad smile, — 

“Beautiful Mrs. Irving! Clemence, doesn’t she look 
like herself?” 

“0! oui, Madame; dtd toujours belle, touj ours aim- 
able,” replied the Frenchwoman. 

“ The roses give a sweet tinge to your cheeks ; but 
they are pale — too pale, dear grandmamma; you want 
fresh air;” and, hanging affectionately over her, Violet 
laid her own cheek, paling through anxiety for her, for 
a moment to Mrs. Irving’s, kissed her again, and, wrap- 
ping the scarlet camel’ s-hair shawl carefully and becom- 
ingly around her, Violet on one side and Clemence on 
the other, Mrs. Irving descended the stairs. 

As she looked at her grandmother reclining grace- 
fully on the sofa, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright- 


VIOLET. 


T9 


ened by feverish excitement, Violet was more than ever 
convinced that the projected trip to Europe was all she 
required to restore her to her wonted health. 

Mrs. Vivian occupied a part of the sofa with Mrs. 
Irving, the Baron hanging on an arm of the sofa, and 
Mrs. Green on a low lounging chair in front of them. 
They were laughing heartily at something Mrs. Green had 
said, the Baron excepted, who, mystified as usual, was 
imploring Madame Irving would be kind enough to trans- 
late for him, — when, suddenly, a strange, dull, fixed look 
came over Mrs. Irving’s face. Deathly pale, her head 
sank on her breast. The Baron hastened in quest of a 
tumbler of water. Mrs. Vivian began fanning her. 
Mrs. Seaton, who considered the party a dangerous 
experiment, and was anxiously watching the invalid, 
hastened to her. 

“She has fainted,” said Mrs. Green. 

“Good God, she is dying!” cried Mrs. Seaton, in a 
tone of horror. “Theodore, Dr. Morgan, come here!” 

Everybody crowded round the sofa. Violet was in 
the next room engaged in earnest conversation with Wil- 
lie Ashton; but, attracted by the commotion, and sup- 
posing that, overcome by the exertion, her grandmother 
had fainted, she ran in. The persons around the sofa 
made room for her; and, shocked at the expression of 
her grandmother’s face, and the looks of horror of those 
around her, with a wild cry she flung herself upon her 
knees, took the cold, clammy hand in hers, gave one ago- 
nized look into the eyes fixed in the ghastly death-stare, 
and fainted. Theodore took her in his arms and carried 
her up stairs; Belle followed; soon the room was full. 
But when Dr. Morgan, who had assisted in removing 
Mrs. Irving to her room, ascertained that life was really 


80 


VIOLET. 


extinct, he went to Violet, and, turning everybody but 
Clemence and Mrs. Seaton out of the chamber, after 
some time succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. 

We will not attempt to describe the poor girl’s feel- 
ings when she heard that all was over. Heart and 
brain seemed benumbed. For hours she sat throwing 
thick masses of hair from her forehead ; she stared wildly 
around, yet seemed to see nothing. 

When informed of her friend’s death, Mrs. Ives hur- 
ried thither. At first Violet did not se£m to recognize 
her; when she did, — “Take her away, take her away!” 
she cried, piteously ; and, finding her presence distressed 
her, taking a last look at her school friend, Mrs. Ives, 
returned home. 

This shrinking from Mrs. Ives was the only sign of 
consciousness Violet showed for days, and Dr. Morgan 
became seriously alarmed for her mind. 

Merciful numbness, blessed confusion of ideas which, 
at such times, renders everything vague and uncertain, 
making the cruel reality seem a dream from which we 
must awaken. 

Gradually came the full realization, the bitter, bitter 
pang, the passionate tears, followed by the deep sleep 
of exhaustion, the rousing with a start, the dim con- 
sciousness that something dreadful had happened, and 
the awakening up to overwhelming sorrow. The livid 
face and horrible death-stare were ever before poor 
Violet. 

“Oh God, I shall go mad!” she would often exclaim; 
and, indeed, she was very near it. 

Tender thoughts followed, melting her to tears, and, 
with the big drops coursing each other down her cheeks, 
starting to her feet and wringing her hands, she would 


VIOLET. 


81 


sob out unconnected sentences, and begin again that in- 
cessant hurried pacing of the floor which had almost de- 
stroyed her during her grandmother’s illness. Impa- 
tient of consolation, she spoke to none but Clemence, 
and to her of but the one subject, — that harrowing 
scene, — dwelling with painful minuteness on every little 
incident. 

Under the effects of morphine, she had slept through 
the funeral. Mrs. Seaton and Belle entreated her to 
go home with them, but no persuasion could induce her 
to quit the house; and finding her resolved, they re- 
mained with her. 

The grandmother’s dreadful death, and Violet’s pe- 
culiarly lonely situation, elicited general sympathy. 
Notes of condolence and calls of inquiry kept John 
continually running to the door. Many persons called, 
in the hope of saying or doing something to soothe the 
lovely orphan; Mrs. Ives came repeatedly; Vane and 
Theodore every day. But Violet saw no one, and read 
neither notes nor books that were sent her. She had 
but one thought, her dear grandmother. 

She had never quitted her chamber since she was car- 
ried fainting to it; however, one day Mrs. Seaton had 
gone home to superintend some domestic arrangement, — 
Belle was out shopping, and Clemence engaged down 
stairs ; and, nerving herself for a visit to the library, their 
ordinary sitting room, she opened the door, but her heart 
failed her, and she paused on the threshold. Everything 
so changed to her! the very naturalness of the objects 
by which she was surrounded seemed strange , dreadful! 
and, almost running through the entry, though trem- 
bling violently, she managed to get there. With diffi- 
culty she opened the door, and, sobbing hysterically, sank 
8 * 


82 


VIOLET. 


down on the nearest chair. In the large bayed win- 
dow were their work-tables, the books they were read- 
ing lay about, and in the recess the piano. How often 
had they played duets upon it ! Violet staggered to it, 
opened it, pressed her lips to the keys, and, as she raised 
her tearful eyes, Mrs. Irving’s portrait, beautiful and 
life-like, smiled down upon her from the wall. For a 
moment her heart stood still; oppressed by a sickening 
feeling, her head swam, everything grew dark before 
her ; but she did not faint. Burying her face in her 
hands, she gave way to a passionate burst of grief. 
Where can her eyes rest, that that too sensitive sorrow- 
stricken heart will not meet with some object to give an 
added pang ? Poor girl ! Pictures, busts, that Psyche 
in the niche! — well does she remember her grandmo- 
ther’s exclamations of delight when it was placed there. 
How she stood off and admired it, and came near, view- 
ing it in every light ! The very carpet on the floor, the 
oaken paneling of the wall, — all, everything, was rife 
with reminiscences of the past, and with them came the 
terrible thought, “ Never , never shall I see her more /” 
which, like Calise on the heart of the defeated queen, 
seemed graven there for life. A footstep on the stairs ; 
it approaches. Mrs. Seaton’s business-like tones; Belle’s 
trite, worn-out scraps of consolation could not be endured 
in that room, and with her present feelings. Whoever 
it was, they were too near to render escape by flight 
possible, and, hastily drying her tears, Violet went to 
the table and began turning over the cards and notes of 
condolence which she had not before seen. The name 
upon one arrested her attention; she looked them 
through; there was no other; he must have written. 
With a trembling hand she broke the seals, and ran her 


VIOLET. 


83 


eye over the interminable pile of straw-colored, pink, 
violet, blue, and white notes; but she found not the 
name she sought. 

“Oh, Willie! and in this my deep, my awful afflic- 
tion !” groaned Violet. “Never, never will I think of 
him more!” Her head dropped upon her folded arms, 
and tears, bitter tears, rushed to her eyes. She was 
roused by some one opening the door; it was John with 
a note. 

“Please, Miss, Mr. Vane is in the drawing-room wait- 
ing for an answer.” 

John spoke rapidly, to conceal the tremor of his voice. 
It was the first time he had seen Violet since her grand- 
mother’s death. 

With a gesture of impatience, Violet tossed the note 
on the table; but at sight of the familiar characters, 
many, many things recurred to her, among others the 
following lines, addressed to her soon after Vane’s rejec- 
tion : — 

’Tis vain you bid me love no more, 

Forget the happy past ; 

It was a dream — the dream is o’er — 

A dream too sweet to last ; 

But boyhood, manhood’s love was thine; 

It cannot now depart ; 

There treasured lies, in that lang syne, 

The bliss of this sad heart. 

For naught on earth would I forego 
The mem’ry of those days, — 

Fond sunny smiles, words sweet and low, 

Thy pretty childish ways ! 

In my loved home, there, there, oh ! there, 

Violet, thou’rt with me still ; 

Each woodland path, ay, everywhere — 

The river’s brink, the breezy hill, 


84 


VIOLET. 


The porch, the pictures on the wall, 

The harp, the books, the flowers — 

How vividly do they recall 
Those blessed, blessed hours ! 

The tall, dark clock behind the door, 

Seen through my blinding tears ; 

The very carpet on the floor, 

The dear, familiar chairs, 

All speak to me of dear lang syne, 

When thy young heart was mine. 

Dead is the elm, beneath whose shade 
You oft have read with me ; 

You loved me, Yiolet, when we played 
Beneath that old elm-tree. 

Hast thou forgot how, seated there, 

Thy soft hand clasped in mine, 

I kissed away each childish tear 
Of old lang syne? 

How there we planned our future life, 

Under that old elm tree; 

You were to be my little wife, 

I, all the world to thee ! 

Ah, like bright stars mid clouds that shine 
Upon a stormy sea, 

Those vanished joys of dear lang syne 
Shall ever be to me. 

Violet, this aching heart will be, 

This breaking heart of mine, 

To its last throb, as true to thee , 

As in that dear lang syne. 

And as she thought them over, she felt sorry, truly 
sorry, that she had been the cause of unhappiness to so 
kind a heart. Ah ! it requires a touch of sorrow to make 
us feel for the sorrows of others. Until now she had 
never known what suffering was. 

“Poor Harry ! he is not ‘ all the world ’ to me, but — 
but why was he not my brother? I could love him 


VIOLET. 


85 


dearly as a brother;” and, with a sigh, she broke open 
the note. He no longer addressed her as a lover; he 
wrote as a brother to a beloved sister in their mutual 
affliction. Blinded by her tears, Violet could scarcely 
read it. “ Ask Mr. Vane up, John,” she said, when she 
had finished, and her heart beat quick at the sound of 
the well-remembered footstep. She met him at the door, 
and held out her hand and tried to speak, but the whis- 
pered words died on her lips, and, turning her head 
away, she burst into tears. 

Vane took her cold, trembling hand in both of his, 
and pressed them in silence, and, leading her to the sofa, 
sat down beside her. Her handkerchief was to her eyes, 
but she felt the hand that clasped hers tremble; she 
heard his deep sigh, and, burying her head in the sofa 
cushions, she sobbed passionately, uncontrollably. 

Vane let her cry; he knew it would do her good; but 
when the sobs grew low and less frequent, bending down 
over her, and speaking tenderly and soothingly to her 
as he would to a child, — 

“ Violet,” he said, “you loved me once as a brother; 
think of me, treat me as such now ; and, so help me Hea- 
ven, I will act a brother’s part by you. Your happiness 
shall be the study of my life;” and his voice trembled 
as he added, “ Yes, Violet, though you bestow your hand 
upon another, you will ever find a brother in me .” 

And Violet felt the promise would be kept; she knew 
his noble, generous, unselfish nature was capable of any 
sacrifice, and tried to tell him so; but, choked by tears, 
she could only press his hand in silence. That pressure 
sealed the compact. From that hour, constituting him- 
self the connecting link between the world, excluded by 
the bowed shutters and the sad circle within, V ane s 


86 


VIOLET. 


presence in the house of mourning was like a sunbeam 
penetrating its gloom. Gentle, quiet, sympathetic, yet 
cheerful, he exerted the happiest influence upon Violet’s 
shattered nerves ; he talked to her of old times, of her 
dear grandmother, and, without chiding her excessive 
grief, led her mind to other thoughts; read to the ladies 
of an evening, sliding occasionally into the on dits of so- 
ciety. How this rising lawyer found time for this bro- 
therly devotion, was miraculous. Mrs. Seaton, who was 
a very practical person, said it only proved the well- 
known apothegm, “ Where there is a will there is a 
way” Harry Vane was left sole executor; and a 
tangled web lay before the executor. Bank-book un- 
balanced, rents in arrears, notes to be met, and no funds 
to make payments with. On the plea of ill health, Mrs. 
Irving’s agent gave up her business a short time pre- 
vious to her death, and, ignorant of such matters, borrow- 
ing and spending recklessly, she had contrived so to 
complicate matters that, unless the creditors proved 
very accommodating, it would require such sacrifices of 
property that Vane had serious apprehensions, instead of 
being an heiress, when the estate was settled, Violet would 
have scarcely enough to support her. A whisper of this 
had transpired, and is the solution of the enigmatical 
conduct which had puzzled Mrs. Irving and Violet. 
Wealthy as he was, Willie Ashton had made up his mind 
that he could not afford a poor wife. Mrs. Ashton must 
have her cashmeres, and diamonds, and extravagances, 
as well as her husband his fast trotters, costly wines, 
and delicious havanas, and, consequently, the money to 
pay for them. 

Vane, on the contrary, thanked God that, sole execu- 
tor, there would be no one to betray him, determined to 


VIOLET. 


87 


share his last penny with her he loved, and would have 
worked night and day rather than Violet should be de- 
prived of the luxuries to which she was accustomed. 
Fortunately his means were ample. 

“Rumor,” cogitated the lawyer, “is trumpet-tongued 
as w T ell as argus-eyed. I must get Violet out of town, 
or some kind officious friend will be sure to enlighten her. 
Heaven knows how people find out things !” and, with his 
pen-staff to his lips, he sat some time turning the matter 
over in his mind. “ I have it!” was the thought that 
brightened up his fine face. “She has a rich country 
aunt, if she’s not dead, residing somewhere in Bucks 
County. I’ll write and tell her how matters stand, and 
ask her to receive Violet until arrangements for her fu- 
ture can be made. No, hang it! that won’t do; she 
might be afraid she would never get rid of her. I’ll 
request an invitation for a few weeks ; the shock has de- 
ranged her niece’s nerves, and the poor girl requires 
change of air and scene. Mrs. Irving treated the wo- 
man scandalously, to be sure, but I, the executor, am 
not expected to be cognizant of family feuds;” and the 
managing executor, in virtue of the same, looking up his 
best note-paper, forthwith hastened to inform the said 
aunt of Mrs. Irving’s sudden demise, the dreadful shock 
to Violet, and ended by a request that she would pardon 
the liberty he was about to take in applying to her in 
her niece’s behalf, trespassing yet further by suggesting 
that as Miss Irving was not aware of the fact, it would 
probably be best that Mrs. Munson’s answer should be 
addressed to her niece in the form of an invitation. 

“Cool assurance!” muttered Vane, as he ran his eye 
hastily over what he had written; “ outrageous ! con- 
sidering the relative position of the parties; but there’s no 


88 


VIOLET. 


help for it;” and, folding the missive, not succeeding in 
finding a note envelope, he slipped it into a large yellow 
husiness-like cover, — the only one that happened to be 
at hand, — sealed it with black wax, locked the office 
door, put the key in his pocket, and went up the street 
to drop it into the dispatch. But, recollecting Dr. Mor- 
gan came from that part of the State, and would most 
probably be able to give him some information respect- 
ing the country aunt, he bent his steps thither. The 
Doctor’s carriage was at the door, the old gentleman 
coming down the steps; and, assuming the air of one 
who had something of importance to communicate, (M. 
D.’s are almost always more or less of gossips) — 

“Well met, Doctor,” he said, shaking hands; “can 
you tell me anything of a Mrs. Munson, who resides, or 
did reside, in the neighborhood of Abbotsford?” 

“Mrs. Munson? what the mischief do you want with 
her?” questioned the Doctor, in extreme surprise. 

“I have written to request she will invite her niece to 
make her a visit,” replied Vane, laughing, amused at 
the Doctor’s mystification. “I’ve done more; I’ve taken 
the liberty of suggesting that the invitation should ap- 
pear the result of her own kindness.” 

“ The devil you have !” and the Doctor shouted. “ Do 
you know,” he said, as soon as he could speak for laugh- 
ing, “that Mrs. Irving and Mrs. Munson detested each 
other, and that there never was any intercourse between 
the families? I doubt very much if Violet knows she 
has such a relation.” 

Vane smiled a determined, cool, lawyer-like smile, as 
he answered, “I’m aware of the facts. What sort of a 
person is the aunt?” 

“One of the first families in the neighborhood,” re- 


VIOLET. 


89 


plied the Doctor; and, gathering the reins in his. hand, 
was about to step into his carriage, when, placing him- 
self between the corpulent Doctor and the door, Vane 
effectually barred his entrance. 

“I’ll not detain you a moment — but, Doctor, tell me 
something of this country aunt.” 

“Whew!” said the Doctor, impatient to be gone; 
she's a character .” 

“Good, bad, or indifferent?” asked Vane, cool as a 
cucumber. 

“A weary man might as well throw himself into a 
briar patch to rest, as a spoiled, petted, refined girl hope 
for sympathy or companionship from Aunt Munson,” was 
the reply. “The woman’s a human electrical. Poor 
Violet will die of shocks. By Jove, I’d like to be pre- 
sent at the meeting!” 

“Thank you!” and Vane bowed; “it is exactly the 
thing; I’m glad you thought of it; you are a friend of 
the lady’s.; hold yourself in readiness to escort Violet. 
Good morning!” and he stepped aside to let the Doc- 
tor pass. 

“I think I can venture to promise I will, when Mrs. 
Munson invites her;” and Dr. Morgan, pushing himself 
into the narrow door, drove off. 

Vane’s letter found the eccentric hard at work in her 
flower-garden. A tall, limp, switchy figure, in a rusty 
alpaca gown and gingham sun-bonnet, chopping away 
around the roots of a rose-bush. 

“Mrs. Munson, sure , an’ here’s a letter for ye!” and, 
creeping down the wide gravelled walk at a snail’s pace, 
Debby, the red-headed servant girl, held up Vane’s mis- 
sive. 

Mrs. Munson disliked her pen ; she wrote to nobody 
9 


90 


VIOLET. 


but her son at Carlisle College, and not often to him; 
she had had a letter from Joe hut the day before, and, 
impatient to know who her correspondent could be, down 
went the hoe in the walk, and, jerking off, first one and 
then the other coarse garden-glove, she sent them sailing 
after it, and feeling on her forehead, and then in her 
pocket — 

“Run to the house and bring me my spectacles,” she 
said to the girl; “they’re on the end of the mantelpiece. 
A man’s hand ; black wax ; Philadelphia ! Who on earth 
can it be from?” and taking the letter from the envelope, 
she held it off at arm’s length, then up to the end of her 
nose ; but in vain ; screw up her eyes as she would, the 
desired focus could not be obtained. “Run!” she mut- 
tered, looking at the girl traipsing along as if her feet 
were tied. “I never knew her to run in my life but 
when she had a waiter of tumblers in her hand, and then 
she was sure to stumble over something and smash them 
all;” and she strode off to the house. Debby was de- 
scending the steps as she reached them. 

“They ain’t on the mantle, mam.” 

“They are,” responded Mrs. Munson, angrily; and, 
brushing past her, she went to the chimney, muttering, 
“I’m sure I left them there. I do wish people would 
let my things stand where I put them.” 

When provoked or puzzled, the country aunt had an 
ugly habit of conversing with herself, and not unfre- 
quently told herself hateful things of persons she was far 
from believing in a cooler moment. 

“Eva! Eva!” and as Mrs. Munson stood at the foot 
of the stairs, her querulous voice went whistling up like 
a northeaster. “ Have you seen my spectacles?” 

“They are in the book on the table, aunt;” and a 


VIOLET. 


91 


pretty little sylph, following the delicious tones, tripping 
down the wide staircase, said, as she entered the room, 
“ You laid them there when you were going in the gar- 
den.” 

“I left them on the mantelpiece,” persisted Mrs. 
Munson, though going toward the table ; but Eva was 
before her, and, taking the spectacles from the hook, 
with a sunny smile held them up to. her aunt. The aunt 
wasted no time in. thanks. Settling them upon her re- 
markable nose, which seemed made for the express pur- 
pose, she ran her eyes rapidly over the letter. 

“H. Vane! I should like to know who H. Vane is? 
and by what right he makes suggestions to me?” The 
crimson spots on either sallow cheek grew more in- 
tensely red as she reperused it more leisurely. “Dead, 
is she? Proud, cruel woman! I’ll have nothing to do 
with the Irvings, dead or alive!” and Mrs. Munson 
crushed the letter in her hand, looking as if it would have 
afforded her infinite satisfaction to crush the Irvings; 
and, taking a bunch of keys from her pocket, opened 
the old-fashioned secretary in the recess, drew a chair, 
and seating herself, still communing with her own wrath- 
ful spirit, said, or rather muttered, as she peeped into 
sundry drawers and pigeon holes, a Do they suppose I’ve 
forgotten her barbarous treatment of poor Kate ? They 
never took the trouble to write a line to tell me whether 
the child was dead or alive, and now , forsooth, that they 
don’t know what to do with her, she’s packed off to me; 
but she may stay where she is! Thank heaven, my 
house is my own! I’ll invite who I please to it! Mr. 
H. Vane may keep his counsel for his clients.” 

Mr. II. Vane had unconsciously pursued the only 
course to insure an immediate answer. Mrs. Munson’s 


92 


VIOLET. 


was not the pen of a ready writer. A letter to a stran- 
ger was to her a serious affair, and, under other circum- 
stances, would most probably have been indefinitely post- 
poned. But deeply incensed, she was miserable until 
the object of her wrath was informed of her opinion of 
his conduct. 

In one of the numerous small drawers her eye fell 
upon a folded paper; she had forgotten it was there; 
opening it, she laid it before her on the desk, and looked 
long and fixedly at the little silky lock of hair treasured 
within, and as she did so, a strange moisture gathered in 
her eyes, her tightly compressed lips began to quiver, 
her stern brow to relax, and in a subdued voice she 
murmured, still speaking to herself , — “She put the baby 
in my arms, and, with her dying breath, begged me to 
be a mother to her child;” and her brimming eyes and 
quivering lips said, “the promise shall not be broken;” 
and from the way her aunt seized her pen and went 
splattering down the page, Eva was sure she had arrived 
at an important decision. 

“Bead that” she said, tossing Vane’s letter to Eva 
when she had directed and sealed her reply. “Did you 
ever hear such impertinence?” 

“Dreadful! poor Violet!” and Eva’s inquiring glance 
asked, is she to come to us. 

“The invitation’s given,” answered the aunt, replying 
to the look, “and I suppose she’ll come; it seems she’s 
nowhere else to go to.” 

A companion of her own age had ever been the yearn- 
ing desire of Eva’s heart. 

“Oh, I am so glad she’s coming!” she exclaimed, per- 
fectly radiant with delight. 


VIOLET. 


93 


A variety of emotions were struggling in tlie aunt’s 
breast. 

“Poor little fool!” sbe said, “because she is your 
cousin, you think she must be a friend. Eva, she comes 
of a proud, cruel race. In return for your kindness, she 
will laugh at your rusticity and scorn your affection. 
Her mother’s sin was being country bred, and not a 
millionaire’s daughter.” 

“Oh, aunt! remember it was the grandmother, not 
Violet, who was unkind.” 

“Who reared Violet? whose notions will she have?” 
asked the aunt, in her shrill, ragged voice. Pretty Eva 
knew when to be silent. 

Violet’s amazement at the invitation exceeded, if pos- 
sible, Mrs. Munson’s indignation at being dictated to by 
H. Vane. Rachel Munson must be a horror , thought 
Violet, as she puzzled over the extraordinary epistle 
which, while extending an invitation to her house, said 
as distinctly, remember it is for your own gratification, 
not mine; I expect no pleasure from the visit. The 
autography was as peculiar as the style. Had a daddy- 
longlegs fallen into the ink-stand, and, jumping out on 
the paper in the extremity of its fright, ran hither and 
thither over it, it could hardly have executed more un- 
readable hieroglyphics ; and provoked by so equivocal an 
attention, in happy ignorance of her own affairs, Violet 
was about to decline on the instant, when, as she re- 
placed her aunt’s letter in the envelope, she found it 
contained a note which she had overlooked. The writing 
neat and flowing, as the aunt’s was cramped and scrawly, 
if such a combination can be imagined, was from Eva, her 
affectionate sympathy being sweetly and gracefully ex- 
pressed. Satisfied that she , at least, was a charming per- 
9 * 


94 


VIOLET. 


son, and feeling it would be a relief to escape from the pain- 
ful associations by which she was surrounded, with one of 
those sudden impulses common to her age and character, 
Yiolet sat down and wrote as graceful an acceptance. 
When Vane came, in the evening, he had the satisfaction 
to find she would leave town that day week. 


VIOLET. 


95 


CHAPTER IV. 

Time toils ever onward; hours grow to days, days to 
weeks, weeks to months, months to years, and years 
into Eternity ! 

Like ocean’s restless billows, forever changing though 
still .the same, daylight and darkness succeed each 
other; seed-time and harvest, the star-lit sky, slowly 
revolving earth and illimitable deep, remain as when God 
called them into being; and, in the sameness of exist- 
ence, Time melts imperceptibly away. 

To-day, Violet leaves for Elmwood. Too proud to 
confess it even to herself, the overflowing drop in 
her cup of sorrow was Willie’s cruel desertion of her. 
Everywhere else, he ignored her very existence; and 
although fully decided not to accept him even should he 
propose, yet every ring at the street door, every step 
in the hall, set her in a flutter; for hope, like a stray 
sunbeam in a dark corner, kept quivering in her sad 
heart. But she was going away, and he had not called. 
Harry was out of town ; Mrs. Seaton and the Doctor 
had taken leave soon after breakfast, and poor Vio- 
let, as she sat on the sofa in her own room, with her 
handkerchief to her eyes and Belle beside her, felt, of 
all forlorn creatures in existence, the most lonely and 
wretched, as if all love for her was buried in the grave 
with her dear grandmother ; and earnestly did she wish 
she was sleeping there too. 

Clemence had been up half the night packing, and — a 


96 


VIOLET. 


wonderful achievement for her — rose with the sun, 
was fussing round, going about cramming every forgot- 
ten article into her miraculous and brilliant traveling- 
sack, saying, as she stuffed them in, u ve may vant itte 
when, stooping to pick up something on the floor, her 
corn came in contact with a foot-stool, — “Mon Dieu!” 
exclaimed the profane creature, making a frightful 
grimace. 

“Suppose you put it in your hag; you may want it;” 
said Belle, smiling. 

“Quelle beffise!” retorted Clemence, giving Belle a 
rabid look, as she flirted past her to the door. Cle- 
mence had been in a pet from the time she had heard of 
the projected visit. The Frenchwoman mortally de- 
tested de wood , as she termed every place remote from 
the city; was in dread and fear of cows, dogs, wasps, 
toads, — in short, of everything. So arrant a coward 
was she, that she had more than once been seen running 
fast as she could, and shrieking Mon Dieu! pursued by 
an infuriated turkey-gobbler. But Clemence’s horror 
of horrors was bears, which, in her simplicity, the poor 
woman believed to he lurking behind every hush. 

Presuming upon her faithful service she did not hesi- 
tate to scold the girls soundly whenever they displeased 
her, and the air of offended dignity with which she sailed 
out of the room with her mouth pursed up, her head 
thrown hack, and her chin tossed up in the air, was too 
droll. Clemence’s elbows, the very sweep of her skirts, 
had an incensed, injured expression when she was angry. 
The inopportune jest had not only provoked Clemence, 
but deeply wounded Yiolet; but, aware it would be as 
impossible to make Belle comprehend her feelings as 
the hieroglyphics on the pyramids in Egypt, the poor 


VIOLET. 


9T 


girl sighed, and cried on in silence. Violet loved 
Belle, not as she would have loved one with whom she 
had more sympathy, but with a sort of habitual affec- 
tion, — the, attachment she would have felt for anything 
she had owned from childhood ; their lives had been passed 
together, and Belle’s conduct for the last few weeks had 
deepened the feeling of kindliness into a warmer senti- 
ment, and, in truth, Violet was trying hard to persuade 
herself into the belief that Belle possessed more feeling 
than she had given her credit for; but this foolish jest 
and unlucky smile had ruined all. No; if Belle had 
loved her, she could not have jested at such a moment. 

“ There’s the carriage!” and in perfect unconscious- 
ness of her crime, Belle started up, went to the band- 
box, and, taking from it the black bonnet and long crape 
veil, handed them to Violet. Violet turned from them 
with a shudder. Assuming the mourning weeds was to 
her, as it were, setting the seal to death, this was the 
first time she had put on her bombazine dress, and she 
would not have done it now had she not been going 
among strangers. But Belle pursued her with the bon- 
net, put it on her, tied it under hei* chin, and ended 
by opening out the bow, as if preparing her for a walk 
in Chestnut street, passed her arm around the weeping 
girl’s waist and drew her out of the room. Clemence, 
meanwhile, on the front steps, with Violet’s shawl over 
her arm and the brilliant traveling-sack in her hand, 
was seeing the trunks strapped on, and thinking of 
the last time she stood there performing the same office. 
Fussy, often cross; blind as a bat to the beauty of 
scenery, and, of all mortals, the least romantic, the old 
nurse had a heart. It was a bright day ; women were 
passing the door with trays on their heads, and the cries 


98 


VIOLET. 


of buy fish ? buy cherries ? shrill and clear, rose above 
the tinkling of the charcoal-man’s bell; children with 
books under their arms, tripping gaily along to school ; 
the girl next door washing off the steps, humming Old 
Folks at Home; the cat, whose horrid mewling had 
annoyed Mrs. Irving so much during her illness, lay at 
the garret window opposite, winking and blinking as the 
sunlight flashed up, from the roof tiles, in her eyes. 
u Mon Dieu! just as if dis vos like all de oder days ob 
de year,” muttered Clemence, as she walked into the 
house and slammed the door after her. 

Violet had not found courage to enter the drawing- 
rooms since the dreadful scene she had witnessed there ; 
but she could not quit the house without doing so ; hear- 
ing the door shut, and supposing Dr. Morgan, who 
was to accompany her, had come, breaking away from 
Belle, she ran down and locked herself in ere Belle 
overtook her, or, indeed, suspected her intention. A 
withered bouquet in one of the vases gave out the sickly 
odor peculiar to dead flowers — Violet perceived it. 

“ Death! the room smells of death !” she exclaimed, 
as she threw herself, sobbing, on a sofa. 

“ Violet dear, let me in; please open the door!” and 
Belle tried to unfasten it; “you’ll unfit yourself for tra- 
veling.” 

“Vous ete malade & present,” bawled Clemence 
through the keyhole; “I vill ab de trunk take off de 
carriage.” 

“Let me alone, for heaven’s sake!” sobbed Violet. 

The first bitter moment past, how many, many 
events came crowding before her, as she lay there ! for 
grief, like dreams, has its sudden strange transitions. 
How happy, how miserable , had she been in that room ! 


VIOLET. 


90 


(Mrs. Irving owned the house and had always lived 
there ; the new front — an admirable imitation of brown- 
stone — stylish entrance, and marble steps w T ere recent 
improvements,) Violet had known no other home. To 
the thinker, the inanimate objects by 'which they are 
surrounded become, as it were, tablets inscribed with the 
diary of their mental existence. Such, to Violet, was 
the dark mass of ivy on the house across the street; 
the window-shutter opposite the sofa on which she had 
thrown herself had blown open. Some one had raised 
the blinds and pushed aside the curtain ; and glancing 
that way, they brought back, as they were always sure 
to do, the memory of the past. A constant source of 
amusement had those vines been to her from childhood, 
when her head reached no higher than the window-ledge; 
standing on a low stool, she loved to see the snow-flakes 
powder them ; and when the thaw began, it was with a feel- 
ing of triumph she beheld the imprisoned ivy wave itself 
free, and the long row of glittering icicles fringing the 
roof, drop off. A solitary child, tiring of books and toys, 
she would remain for hours watching the swallows that 
had built their nests under the eaves, feeding their young, 
or hopping about among the dark ivy leaves sparkling 
with rain-drops after a summer shower. Year by year, 
as the vines crept higher and higher, and Violet grew into 
girlhood, a companionless little maiden, the nursery now 
her chamber, she would sit for hours at her window, 
her eyes upon the vines, her mind full of vague fancies 
and questionings of the whys and 'wherefores of life. 
Fancies, that passed not as the snow-wreath from the 
waving vines, the bird from the eaves, or the rain-drop 
from the ivy leaves, hut, interwoven with her young life, 
became an integral part of it, and returned to her by 


100 


VIOLET. 


fragments whenever she looked at them. J ust now they 
recalled the harrowing alternations of hope and fear she 
had suffered during her dear grandmother’s illness ; and, 
faint and sick at heart, she closed her eyes to shut out, 
if possible, the agonizing thoughts. 

“ Where is Violet?” she heard Dr. Morgan ask in 
the hall. 

Bereavement and distress were every-day occurrences 
to the Doctor ; he had little patience with what to him 
seemed fanciful or unreasonable sorrow; and, moreover, 
he had the horrid habit of jesting in order to raise the 
spirits; and, dreading him in either mood, drawing her 
thick veil over her face, Violet unfastened the door, 
hastily embraced Belle, ran down the steps, and was in 
the carriage before the portly M.D. could pick up his 
Quarterly, which had slipped from under his arm while 
shaking hands with Belle. 

“Get in;” and the burly Doctor stood aside for Cle- 
mence. 

A mark of consideration extremely flattering ; but, un- 
fortunately, in following her in he came down mercilessly 
upon Clemence’s corn; and the unfeeling man smiled at 
the shocking ugly faces she made, instead of apologizing 
for the torture he had inflicted. The Frenchwoman 
opposite, provoked and victimized, looking daggers, 
Violet crying in the corner beside him, Dr. Morgan 
betook himself to his Quarterly Review. 

It was near sunset of the second day after leaving Phila- 
delphia, that they reached Abbotsford ; weary and sad as 
she was, for the moment Violet’s pale face kindled with 
her old enthusiasm when she looked from the carriage 
window at the landscape before her. The new little vil- 
lage, nestled in a hollow, protected from the keen north 


VIOLET. 


101 


wind by rocky hills clothed to their summits with tall 
firs; the golden sky in the back-ground shimmering 
among the leaves and throwing out in bold relief the 
clumps of sombre evergreens scattered here and there 
on the bare rocks; a clear stream, — reflecting rocks, 
trees, meadow-lands, waving trees, and blue sky, — all at 
once foaming over a ledge of rocks into the mill-pond 
below. But they were in the village; dogs barking, 
men, women, and children running to the doors and win- 
dows to stare at them ; the boys, playing ball on the com- 
mon, stopped their game to gape as the carriage passed ; 
the very cows they met lazily wending their way home- 
ward in the green lane through which their course lay, 
standing still for a moment to gaze at them, set off on a 
brisker trot, making the bells suspended from their necks, 
jingle merrily. 

Strange, that the sight of a carriage should create 
such a sensation! thought Violet; and, notwithstand- 
ing Eva’s lady-like note, a sunburnt face and coarse, 
freckled hands, flitted before her mental vision, which 
disappeared as suddenly when she caught a glimpse 
(between the trees) of a stone house, with verandas 
and picturesque irregularities, evidently additions to 
the main building. A long avenue of magnificent elms, 
which, meeting here and there overhead, formed natu- 
ral arches ; a neatly shaven lawn, sprinkled with orna- 
mental trees ; and a pillared porch, quite assured her, 
and she felt convinced that, however eccentric , Rachel 
Munson could not be a vulgar person. In her eager- 
ness to meet her new relatives, leaving the Doctor 
fumbling on the seat for his cane and Quarterly, she 
sprang from the carriage and ran up the steps. 

“Are the ladies at home?” she inquired of a queer- 
10 


102 


VIOLET. 


looking woman who stood in the porch, staring, as Violet 
thought, rather rudely at her. But receiving no an- 
swer, she repeated the question. “The woman’s deaf 
or dumb; I asked her if the ladies were at home, hut 
she does not speak,” said Violet to the Doctor, who 
just then came up the steps. 

“Your niece, Mrs. Munson;” and looking very so- 
lemn from the effort not to laugh, Dr. Morgan shook 
hands with the supposed domestic. 

Violet recoiled some steps ; with difficulty she re- 
pressed the shriek that rose to her lips. Heavens ! that 
limp, sallow object, her aunt! 

“Neither deaf, dumb, nor blind, thank Heaven!” said 
the aunt, in a shrill voice ; and, as if suddenly endowed 
with locomotion, extending a hand to each, added, 
“ Come in out of the east wind;” and, turning her back 
on her visitors, led the way into the house. 

“I need not ask if you are well, Doctor,” she observed, 
glancing over his portly figure ; “ how is Mrs. Morgan ?” 

“In quite as good condition, thank you;” and put- 
ting aside the skirts of his coat with the peculiar instinct 
of the faculty for appropriating comforts, the Doctor 
was about depositing himself in the most inviting chair 
in the parlor, when Mrs. Munson, darting to it, rolled 
it off to another part of the room. 

“ You a popular physician, and going to sit in that 
draft ! To-morrow you would be groaning with rheuma- 
tism and wondering how you got it !” And taking her 
spectacles from her pocket as she spoke, Mrs. Munson 
put them on, and, turning to Violet, who in dumb amaze- 
ment continued standing just within the door, surveyed 
the poor girl from head to foot as coolly and critically 
as if she had been a statue or picture she was about to 
purchase. 


VIOLET. 


103 


It was not Violet Irving the aunt was looking at or 
thinking of. The dark eyes so full of fire, yet humidly 
tender, transparent skin, and finely-cut features, were 
her own dear Kate’s ; and while Mrs. Munson stood there 
staring so fiercely, knitting her heavy brows and pressing 
her thin lips tightly together to keep hack the tears from 
her eagle eyes, had the strange woman followed the dic- 
tates of her feelings, she would have gathered the pale, 
weary girl close to her breast, and wept over her in very 
fondness. Glancing up into the hard, stern face before 
her, Violet thought of black Agnes, Meg Merrilies, 
Flora McGregor, and all the grim manly women she had 
ever read or heard of, bitterly regretting the impulsive- 
ness which had led her so recklessly to throw herself 
among strangers, and thus brought her in contact with 
the horror. 

“Take off your things, child,” Mrs. Munson said, at 
last, in a tone quite at variance with her cast-iron face. 
It wasn’t her ordinary tone; it was the sister s heart 
speaking to dear, dead Kate’s child. The Doctor’s curi- 
osity w T as satisfied ; he had witnessed the meeting ; and, 
procuring his hat and cane, he walked to the village. As 
soon as he was gone Mrs. Munson offered to conduct 
Violet to her chamber. 

Clemence, meanwhile, (who, with the trunks, had been 
deposited in the room appropriated to Violet’s use,) as 
soon as she found herself alone, took a deliberate survey 
of the premises ; walking about the room and examining 
the antiquated furniture, she shrugged her shoulders and 
muttered to herself, — 

“ Mais quel desolate place la; no sofa, no fauteuil, 
no petit table , nothing for make de comfort; chair hare , 
chair dare all long de wall! Madame tink me come for 


104 


VIOLET. 


dance? Certainement no;. I shall cry , more like, in dis 
room often, Mon Dieu. Mais I make it betar dan so.” 

And forthwith Clemence went to work to effect a dif- 
ferent disposition of the movahles; dragging the table 
out of the corner into the middle of the room, she sat 
round it some of the uncomfortable high-backed ma- 
hogany chairs. 

“ Madame Noa curl her hairs at dis ;” and standing be- 
fore the very ancient dressing-table, adjusting her cap, 
Clemence looked up in wonderment at the towering chest 
of drawers, reaching almost to the ceiling, the broad 
brass handles shining like gold as the rays of the set- 
ting sun flashed upon them. 

“ Quel horror ! dat mountain patchwork ! ma pauvre 
enfant fall out dare, her neck vill broke ! She no sleep 
dare !” 

And soon the old four-poster, with clawy terminations, 
was denuded of the feather-bed which had made Debby’s 
arms ache to shake up to that imposing height; one great 
wool mattress and then the other was dragged off, and 
hustling them under the bedstead, by dint of pulling and 
tugging, popping off all the hooks on her basque, and 
smashing her dress-hoops, Clemence succeeded in get- 
ting the feather-bed on again; and, running directly 
counter to Mrs. Munson’s directions to Debby in the 
morning, smashing it down as flat as possible, made up 
the bed afresh. 

“Dare, dat vill do!” said the Frenchwoman, in the 
most complaisant tone, as she patted and smoothed the 
quilt; “ mais, what for dis stand hare?” And setting 
her shoulder against the great unwieldy easy-chair with 
ghastly white cover, by a vigorous push sent it half-way 
across the room, placed the droll little three-legged 


V I 0 L E T. 


105 


stool (covered with carpeting and shagged round with 
worsted fringe) before it; and, wiping the perspiration 
from her forehead, was making herself the most exag- 
gerated compliments upon the improvement she had 
effected, when she remembered several handsomely- 
bound books which, happening to be lying about Vio- 
let’s room when she was packing up, she had thrown in 
the trunk for the purpose of making her room in the 
country look nice. The trunk once opened, she thought 
she might as well get out Violet’s writing-desk, port- 
folio, work-box, toilet-set, and other little et ceteras ; and 
scarcely had she disposed them to her satisfaction, when 
the door opened and in walked Mrs. Munson and Violet. 

It was Clemence’s first view of Mademoiselle’s aunt. 
Her start and look of mingled amazement and dismay 
was almost too much for Violet’s gravity. Mrs. Mun- 
son saw only the deep courtesy and extraordinary con- 
fusion of the room. 

“ What on earth have you done to the bed ?” she said, 
going up to it and passing her hand over the subdued 
feathers. 

“ Onder , Madame;” and, raising the dimity vallence, 
Clemence, pointing to the rejected mattresses, added, with 
another profound courtesy, “Mais Madame say so, I put 
em back; de lit high as de ciel, she fall from dare her 
neck vill broke.” 

Amused by the old woman’s extraordinary jargon, 
murdering, as she did, both languages, the mistress of 
Elmwood honored her with a grim smile. 

So long in America, it was strange Clemence did not 
speak better English. Mrs. Irving always kept her to 
her French; but fond of her Anglies , as she called it, 
Clemence sported it on every convenient opportunity. 

10 * 


106 


VIOLET. 


Finding the Frenchwoman waited orders, Mrs. Munson 
said, graciously for her, — 

“Let them be ; I’ll have them taken away.” 

Unaccustomed to any other, Clemence did not appre- 
ciate the mild tone, poor woman ; old as she was, she 
had much yet to learn. 

“What’s your name?” demanded Mrs. Munson. 

“ Clemence, Madame.” 

“Well, Clemence,” (the way the country aunt pro- 
nounced the name made the Frenchwoman smile, but 
she covered the indiscretion with the end of her black 
silk apron,) “do not let your apprehension for Vio- 
let’s neck induce you to saw off the legs of my mother’s 
old four-poster.” 

“So droll, dat!” said Clemence, as soon as she was 
out of hearing; “I vos wish for one saw so soon I see 
dem leg;” and Clemence went to the door and peeped 
after Mrs. Munson, with a mysterious superstitious ap- 
prehensiveness, as if by no means certain Mademoiselle’s 
aunt was not something of a witch. 

Wearied by the two days’ drive, Violet found the bed 
extremely comfortable ; but, too much excited to sleep, 
she did not lay long. Smoothing her hair, she descended 
to the parlor. It was empty. How strange ! Where could 
Eva be ? Was the poor girl a Cinderella? What if the 
niece prove as disagreeable as the aunt ? Oh, this unfor- 
tunate impulsiveness ! But I am here. The visit will be a 
short one. While I stay I must make the best of it; and 
with this wise determination she walked to the window. 
It opened to the floor; three steps, and you were in the 
flower-garden. Violet threw up the sash and looked out. 
To the city girl it seemed a field of flowers. Like the 
patchwork quilt on her bed, a labyrinth of circles, semi- 


VIOLET. 


107 


circles, hearts, and rounds, bordered with box, the walks 
between nicely graveled. The view beyond was beautiful ; 
the river, winding far away with many a gentle sweep 
and sudden bend, looking smaller and smaller, until, a 
silver thread, it was lost among the hills; the great 
trees on the lawn, growing shadowy and mysterious in 
the deepening twilight ; long lines of stone fences, cross- 
ing and recrossing each other; meadows and hedges; 
and in the distance, circling round, tall trees, whose tops 
seemed to touch the clouds; and above, over all, the 
glowing sky, fast changing from transparent violet to 
misty gray, as night came down upon the beautiful land- 
scape. 

A puff of dewy air, laden with the perfume of flowers, 
blew in her face. Violet looked down ; myriads of fire- 
flies w T ere fluttering about in the grass, on the lawn, in 
the hedges, the shrubbery, the flowers, through the trees, 
and far, far away, like fairy lamps, borne by invisible 
hands. Then came pleasant rural sounds upon the 
wind, breaking what to her seemed the unnatural still- 
ness. The lowing of cattle, bleating of sheep, and an 
occasional far-off harking of a dog, and sharp, quick, 
shrill cry of the cricket, which, with the uncertain light, 
made up of twilight and moonbeams, (the moon, a slen- 
der crescent, with a single star beside her, was just rising 
above the tall trees on the brow of the hill,) and the 
strangeness of everything, had such an effect upon Vio- 
let that, for the moment bewildered, she lost the con- 
sciousness of her identity. It seemed to her she was 
not herself, but some poor afflicted girl she was reading 
about, and that when she laid aside the hook the dull, 
heavy weight would he lifted from her heart, and she 
would be happy Violet Irving again. The momentary 


108 


V I 0 L E T. 


mystification was very sweet; and, fearing almost to 
breathe lest it should be dispelled, Violet stood leaning 
against the window-frame, looking very beautiful in her 
deep mourning, the moonlight streaming down upon her 
pale, classic face. 

Creaking boots announced the Doctor ; to be precipi- 
tated from this dream-state into one of Dr. Morgan’s 
jokes was too . much for her shattered nerves. At a 
bound, clearing the steps, she alighted almost on the 
head of some one who happened to be passing under the 
window. 

“ What were steps made for ?” asked Mrs. Munson, in 
her shrillest tone, settling her cap, which had been nearly 
knocked off, and looking very much disposed to employ 
her hands in a different manner. 

Choking with laughter, Violet apologized for the fright 
she had given her. 

“ Never mind; only you’d better not try it again, or 
you may chance to dash out your brains, as well as mine. 
See here,” and opening her hand, exhibiting a little 
chicken, chirping piteously, — “I found this little miser- 
able under the hedge,” she said, “and am going to take 
it to the hen. Come with me;” and, linking Violet’s arm 
in hers, she dragged her off. 

Up one flight of steps and down another, through a 
long, back piazza, and across the yard, Violet thought 
of the man of the cork leg ; and it was quite with a feel- 
ing of relief, wdien, passing through a small gate into a 
neat yard, inclosed by white-washed paling, she found 
herself at the fowl-house. Mrs. Munson talked all the 
while so fast that she had no time to inquire for Eva. 
In returning, Violet’s dress was caught by something be- 
hind, and held fast; with a cry of alarm, she clung to 
Mrs. Munson. 


VIOLET. 


109 


“ Why don’t you fly ?” asked the aunt, as she stooped 
to extricate it from the crooked stick projecting from the 
woodpile, in which it had become entangled. 

Roused by the strange voice, a vicious Scotch terrier, 
darting out of the kitchen, barking furiously, ran to- 
ward them; but recognizing Mrs. Munson, slunk back 
again. A sash in the upper story was thrown up ; there 
was a light in the room, and Violet saw a slight figure 
and profusion of flaxen curls; Mrs. Munson saw it too. 
The maid of the flaxen curls observed that she did, and in 
went the head and down came the sash. They were be- 
fore a glass door. Mrs. Munson opened it, and entering 
a cozy, well-lighted room, they found the Doctor on the 
sofa with his Quarterly, and the tea table, glittering with 
quaint old silver, but no Eva. 

“ The village has quite grown to a town,” remarked 
Dr. Morgan, laying aside his book. 

“ I wish it had grown anywhere else,” responded Mrs. 
Munson, ringing for tea. 

He had forgotten ; any allusion to railroads or Ab- 
botsford never failed to put the amiable lady out of 
humor. That the road, contrary to her angry remon- 
strances, should pass through her property, Mrs. Mun- 
son considered a case of flagrant government tyranny, 
and the location of the village in sight of her house, 
a personal effront. Seeing the blunder he had com- 
mitted, the Doctor became enthusiastic over the old 
china, called Violet’s attention to the exquisite work- 
manship of the family plate, and examined and admired 
it as if it was the first time he had seen it. 

“'Where is Eva?” he asked, as the lady’s brow re- 
laxed. 


110 


VIOLET. 


Answering to the point, Mrs. Munson replied, “Up 
stairs. Shall I give you tea or coffee?” 

The Doctor thought a minute : the coffee-pot was 
simmering on the spirit-lamp ; he looked down into the 
corpulent little cream-pitcher at his elbow, (he had moved 
his chair up to the head of the table, for he liked to be 
near the person he was speaking to,) and answered, — 

“ Coffee, if you please. My patients tell me they 
drink it with impunity; but hang me if I can. However, 
I don’t get Elmwood coffee and such cream every day, 
so I’ll venture a cup and the headache. By the way, 
it’s provoking Eva should be sick, and I leave to-morrow. 
Can’t she wrap up and come down ? What’s the matter 
with her ?” 

“ Nothing that I’m aware of ; if she is sick, this is the 
first I’ve heard of it. She has been perfectly wild with 
delight ever since she heard Violet was coming to us. A 
dozen times a day the foolish child would throw aside her 
book or work and gaze at nothing, and when I asked 
what was the matter, she would say, 4 thinking how Vio- 
let looks, aunt.’ Her favorite authors, marked at ap- 
proved passages, are all on her table ready to compare 
tastes, and her room has been in reception order for a 
week ; indeed, I never saw her so silly and excited be- 
fore, and I thought it a good opportunity for a lesson of 
self-denial. You will not see Eva to-night.” And Mrs. 
Munson looked as if she expected to be applauded for 
her management. 

“ Self-denial , my dear Madam! why, the girl’s an 
angel ! There’s no self about her and turning to Vio- 
let, half laughing, half angry, he added, “one of the 
sweetest, most unselfish creatures on earth. Poh, poh ! 
Mrs. Munson, let us have her down at once. I want to 


VIOLET. 


Ill 


see the meeting;” and the Doctor rose and touched the 
bell. 

“ Some warm muffins, Debby,” said Mrs. Munson to 
the girl who answered the bell. 

“But, Mrs. Munson,” remonstrated Dr. Morgan, “you 
forget you are punishing me , and I’m o’er old for les- 
sons now.” 

“Such lessons never come amiss at any age,” replied 
the inexorable, helping herself to a hot muffin. 

“Do you venture hot cakes?” 

“Certainly; why not? I’ve eaten them all my life.” 

Mrs. Munson was one of the Penlemon family; she 
never condescended to be ill . The Doctor knew it. 

“Pardon me,” he said, “I understood you were a 
dyspeptic.” 

“I?” she exclaimed, quite as much annoyed as he 
could desire. Had he accused her of delirium tremens, 
she could not have been more provoked. 

“By the way, how is Joe getting on?” 

“Pretty much like other boys,” replied the mother; 
“ he spends a great deal of money.” 

“Has he raised an imperial and whiskers yet?” 

“ Like the caterpillar youths in the city ? No, indeed ; 
I’d like to catch him at it. If he was to be such an oaf, 
I vow I’d cut him off with a shilling.” 

“Make no rash vows, Madam,” said the Doctor, laugh- 
ing. “Joe’ll be a caterpillar when he comes to the hairy 
age, if he fancies it. How does Dora amuse herself 
without him?” 

“Fishing, and shooting, and doing everything she 
ought not,” answered Mrs. Munson. 

“She’s an original,” remarked the Doctor, turning to 
Violet. “Very pretty, a sylph-like figure, and an un- 


112 


VIOLET. 


commonly sweet voice ; yet every inch a boy. F ollowed 
by her dogs, she gallops over the country, brings down a 
bird on the wing, hooks trout when no one else can — in 
a word, is a merry little outlaw.” 

“ An original, which I hope is not copied,” said Vio- 
let; “unfeminine women are horrid.” 

“Well, with all this, Dora is not masculine,” persisted 
the Doctor. “ I bet my life you’ll fall in love with her 
at first sight; her prettiness, her playfulness, her airy 
figure and musical voice, saves her.” 

“And needs all these offsets,” remarked Mrs. Mun- 
son, “when, galloping up to the door, she vaults from 
her saddle, and, tossing the reins to Ben, the stable boy, 
walks in humming a tune and smacking her whip. The 
family are on a visit to Mrs. Wallingford’s mother at 
present. It is enough to vex a saint,” (and vexed Mrs. 
Munson looked, but very unlike a saint,) “to think that 
this anomaly, an only child, rich as a Jew, sweet-tem- 
pered, with the best heart in the world, and a vast deal 
of talent, is growing up such a barbarian; while Miss 
Crim, at an enormous salary, is reading novels and 
strumming polkas. Mamma, a bundle of shawls, always 
shut up in her dressing-room, nurses herself for I hardly 
know what; dyspepsia , probably;” and Mrs. Munson 
smiled a grim smile at the Doctor; “her gentlemanly, 
weak-minded husband waiting upon her like a slave.” 

Tea was over; and, stopping abruptly, clasping her 
hands and bowing her head upon them, without the inser- 
tion of a comma, Mrs. Munson said, in an undertone, 
“God make us thankful for what we have received;” 
and, changing to her natural voice, “If Dora was my 
daughter, I’d manage her.” 


VIOLET. 


113 


“And if I professed to be a Christian, I’d say grace 
with more reverence,” thought Dr. Morgan. 

Pleading fatigue, Violet escaped to her room. 

“Oh, I am so weary!” and with a sigh she threw her- 
self into the great easy chair. 

A gentle tap at the door, and “may I come in?” in a 
remarkably melodious voice, and one of Raphael’s angels 
stood before Violet! the eyes, the flaxen curls, and the 
peculiar expression, combining the innocence of the an- 
gelic and intelligence of the human nature ! In speech- 
less admiration, Violet could only gaze her delight, while 
Eva, blushing deeply, stammered an apology for her ap- 
parent unkindness in not sooner coming to welcome her, 
which Violet cut short by an embrace, and, drawing her 
down beside her into the commodious chair, said, — 

“ Your aunt (she could not bring herself to say my 
aunt) has explained it all, dear ; but this is not the first 
glimpse I’ve had of you, though those pretty curls hid 
the face I was so anxious to see. Eva, I knew from your 
note you were a darling,” and Violet kissed her again. 

“I am so glad you’ve come;” and Eva threw her arms 
around her cousin as she spoke. “All my life I have 
longed for a companion of my own age, and this is 
the first time the wish has been gratified. I’m sure you 
won’t call me romantic, and foolish, and extinguish 
me by 4 You will not think so when you are as old as 
” and, pursing up her pretty mouth, Eva shook her 
head with a wise old look, and broke into a sweet, merry, 
ringing, lady-like laugh — mirth set to music! Violet 
thought the laugh very indicative of the character, and her 
captivation was complete. “Was it not lucky aunt did 
not forbid me to come to you ?” said Eva. “ By-the-way, 
I don’t suppose it occurred to her, or she would;” and 
11 


114 


VIOLET. 


again she laughed the sweet laugh. “I could not sleep 
without welcoming you to your new home; but you have 
had a long drive, and must be sleepy and tired.” 

“ Neither, since I’ve seen you, darling; sit down and 
talk to me;” and, twining her arm around the slender 
waist, Violet again drew Eva down into the chair. 
“ There, put your feet up;” and she pushed the three- 
legged stool toward her. 

“We are to be sisters, are we not, cousin mine?” 
asked Eva, affectionately. 

“Yes, dear.” What pleasure I shall take in im- 
parting my accomplishments to the beautiful rustic, 
thought Violet; while Eva not only gave her cousin 
credit for possessing every possible accomplishment, but, 
what is infinitely beyond all accomplishments, piety ; 
and, poor, innocent child, in her simplicity she eagerly 
anticipated the nice times they should have singing 
hymns, reading their Bible, and praying together. 

Brought up in the closest seclusion, (in her whole life 
she had never been beyond the neighboring parish,) 
her father an Episcopal minister, and living altogether 
among religious people, or those who professed to be 
such, it would have surprised Eva as little that her 
cousin Violet should quit her chamber in the morn- 
ing without shoes and stockings, as without having said 
her prayers and read her Bible; the idea of any one’s 
going to bed without asking God’s blessing and pro- 
tection for the night, never for a moment entered her 
little head. 

“Well,” she said, finding Violet was quite equal to it, 
“suppose, then, we begin at once, by reading together?” 

“ Reading ? What an idea! I’d rather talk.” 

“We’ll talk to-morrow,” said Eva, very sweetly; 


VIOLET. 


115 


“ we’ll get up early, and take a run round the garden 
before breakfast; I want to show you my bees and 
flowers;” and, rising as she spoke, Eva went to the table 
and began looking over the books. “ Where’s your 
Bible, Violet?” she asked, surprised not to see it. 

“Bible! Heavens, what do you want with a Bible?” 

What a revelation was that question to Eva! But, 
thought she, if she has no religion, poor girl, this is her 
hour to need it; and turning to Violet, the little Raphael, 
now a sorrowing angel, said, — 

“It will be so sweet to unite in our devotions. Well, 
dear, we will omit the reading to-night ; but let us thank 
God for bringing us together.” 

“Mercy! I hope she’s not a Methodist!” and Violet’s 
castles in the air began to totter. 

Returning to the chair, Eva kneeled before it, and 
looked up at Violet playing with her black-bordered 
handkerchief. If she must listen to a prayer, Violet 
would very much have preferred lolling where she was ; 
hut she was evidently expected to kneel ; and, rising with 
a lazy sigh, she placed herself beside her cousin. Violet 
twining her arm around her, and drawing her fondly to 
her, Eva breathed forth the thoughts of her devout heart 
so artlessly, so fervently, that, disposed as she was at 
first to laugh, the tears sprang to Violet’s eyes while 
she listened to the young girl’s prayer; and unconscious 
of having done anything peculiar, dear Eva rose and 
bade her good-night. 

“Une Metoodist, Mademoiselle Eva?” asked Cle- 
mence, shrugging her high shoulders, as she assisted 
Violet to undress. 

Though she had taken quite a comfortable nap while 
the girls were chatting, Clemence was in such a hurry 


116 


VIOLET. 


to get to bed that she forgot to draw in the Venetian 
blinds or close the curtains, and Violet was awakened by 
times in the morning by the sun shining in her face. 

Remembering her appointment with her cousin, in- 
stead of turning over and going to sleep again, as she 
undoubtedly would under other circumstances, with a 
lazy yawn, she, springing out of bed, went to the window 
and threw up the sash. The air was perfectly delicious ; 
trees, grass, hedges, vividly green; everything looking 
bright and full of life. The gilt arrow on the barn, 
flashing and sparkling in the sun; the little swallows 
twittering as they flew in airy circles around it ; geese 
and ducks cackling. A shrill, long-protracted whistle 
drew her eyes in the direction of the village ; a train of 
cars, darting out of the wood, flew forward on their way 
to Abbotsford. A soft kiss on her cheek, and a low, 
sweet laugh, made Violet start.- Eva, with a couple of 
sunbonnets in her hand, was at her side. 

“Not dressed?” she said. 

“Dressed! Your rude sun, shining in my face, roused 
me, or I should not have been awake these three hours. 
I cannot dress myself, you know; and Clemence is as 
lazy as I am.” 

“I am my own maid; allow me to assist you;” and, 
laughing and chatting, Violet’s toilet was soon finished, 
and arm in arm the girls descended to the parlor. 

Dr. Morgan was driving from the door; Mrs. Munson 
had given him his breakfast ; and, as it was on the table, 
the girls postponed their walk until afterwards. 

Violet was charmed with all she saw: the flowers, the 
bees in their glass hives; the clear, calm, broad river 
at the bottom of the garden, mirroring the fleecy clouds, 
blue sky, and waving trees. They sat down to rest a 


VIOLET. 


117 


while on the bench, under a clump of noble water-oaks; 
and, amused by the novelty of everything around her, 
listening to the rustling of the leaves and busy insect 
hum, her beautiful cousin’s hand in hers, she felt happier 
than she ever expected to do again. So light of heart 
for the moment, Violet reproached herself as unfeeling. 

On returning to the house, Eva proposed showing her 
over it. Like most old houses which have been added 
to as the exigency or whim of the proprietor demanded, 
it abounded in inconveniently arranged rooms and dis- 
mal entries, so sinister and mysterious that Violet, 
startled by their echoing footsteps, half expected to en- 
counter the ghost of some departed ancestor, when, 
throwing open a door, Eva ushered her into a cheerful 
south room, with roses trained around the windows and 
mignonnette and geraniums growing in pots in the deep 
window-seat. The transparent muslin curtains blowing 
about in the breeze, which, stealing the perfume from 
the roses and mignonnette, and stirring the strings of an 
Eolian harp in one of the windows, ever and anon rang 
out fairy-like music. A pretty little tent-like bed; com- 
fortable sofa, with its downy pillows; chairs, large and 
small, standing about, ready to be dropped into ; book- 
cases, the table, with piles of those marked books her 
aunt spoke of ; writing materials, and the little et ceteras 
which individualize home, so unlike the prim, old-fash- 
ioned, barebone-look of the other part of the house, de- 
lighted and surprised Violet. 

“Beloved of the fairies! I presume the little folk do 
your work?” she said, turning to her cousin with a smile. 
“No wonder you don’t keep a maid.” 

“I am also my own fairy ” replied Eva. “Most of 
these pretty things are presents from Miss Mary Tem- 
11 * 


118 


VIOLET. 


pie, who kindly assisted me in arranging my room. I 
chose it for its south aspect. Is not the view pretty?” 
and Eva drew aside the curtain. Just at that point the 
river, making a sudden bend, formed a little island, on 
which was a rustic summer-house under a majestic oak. 
A little skiff, moored to a stump, was floating with the 
tide; the green banks, clear stream, and hills beyond, 
— it was, indeed, a beautiful landscape. Delighted, Violet 
was about to throw herself into a low bamboo chair by 
the window, — a glance did not satisfy her, — v 7 hen, seeing 
a guitar case under the sofa, — 

“Do you play on the guitar, Eva?” and, starting up, 
she dragged it out; and taking it from the case, placing 
it in Eva’s hand, said, “Come, play for me.” 

“Some other time;” and blushing, Eva laid the guitar 
on the sofa. 

“Know you not, Miss, I am a fairy? Sing, or a cat, 
you shall mew the remainder of your natural life !” Eva 
laughed. “ Choose your color ! You wont? Well, ears 
and claws sprout out!” and Violet stamped her little 
foot and tried to look alarmingly fierce. “Say, tabby, 
white or black — vEich shall it be?” 

“Mercy, good fairy!” and Eva took up the instru- 
ment, adding, “ But indeed you don’t know what you are 
bringing upon yourself; I have had no instructions, but 
a few lessons from my father, who played by ear.” 

“I’m prepared for the worst, my dear;” and the lazy 
girl, throwing herself at full length on the sofa, drew a 
pillow under her head, and, looking the very personifica- 
tion of indolence, — “Sing something,” she said, when 
the waltz was ended. 

“What shall I sing?” 


VIOLET. 


119 


“Thy name was once a magic spell.” It was a favor- 
ite of Willie’s; they had often sang it together. 

Eva’s voice, though untrained in Italian trills, was 
rich and flexible, and she sang with great natural taste. 
As Violet listened, the pleased approbatory smile faded, 
her lip began to quiver, her eyes to fill ; and when Eva 
came to — 

“ And we, who met so fondly once, 

Must meet as strangers now ,” — 

her deep, almost convulsive sob, startled Eva. Suppos- 
ing her cousin’s distress caused by some association con- 
nected with her grandmother, — 

“Violet, darling,” she said, tenderly, “let me sing 
you what soothes me when I am sad;” and prefacing it 
by a short symphony, sang — 

“ My God, my Father, while I stray 
Far from my home on life’s rough way, 

Oh ! teach from my heart to say 
Thy will be done. 

“ Renew my will from day to day, 

Blend it with thine, and take away 
All that now makes it hard to say 
Thy will be done.” 

She had succeeded, not in awakening a feeling of re- 
signation, but in breaking the chain of painful reminis- 
cences. Violet’s tears ceased to flow, and thanking 
Eva for her sweet music, said she had paid it the very 
highest compliment by weeping at it ; and, pointing to a 
very ancient-looking tome on the top of the book-case, 
inquired what it was. 

“A portfolio of my father’s drawings. Would you 
like to see them?” and getting upon a high stool, .Eva 


120 


VIOL E T. 


took it down; and, their chairs drawn up to the table, 
their heads close together, they were soon busy looking 
them over. 

“I wish, Violet, you had known papa, (Eva’s face al- 
ways wore a sweet pensiveness when she spoke of her 
father,) he was so kind, so agreeable; he made every 
subject so clear, so interesting.” 

Artless and winning, fresh in character, and blytlie as 
a bird, Eva possessed many of the gifts of Wordsworth’s 
Geneveve; and, though like that exquisite creature, she 
was a u lady of nature’s making,” yet w T as Eva much 
indebted to the excellent father so dearly loved. She 
was his constant companion, and exemplifying in his own 
life the beauty of holiness, unconsciously to herself his 
child grew into a lovely practical Christian. 

“This is very beautiful, Eva!” and Violet pointed to 
a small landscape in water colors. “ The delicate foli- 
age; the branches drooping so gracefully over the trans- 
parent water; the light and shadow, the gradations of 
tone so warm, so true to nature; it’s a gem.” 

Eva’s cheeks were in a blaze. 

“Here’s something much prettier,” she said, handing 
her cousin a moonlight scene. 

“I deny it. Who is the artist, Eva?” and Violet fixed 
her eyes upon the truthful face. A respectable artist 
herself, she was struck with the boldness of outline and 
depth of coloring. 

“You darling!” she cried, starting to her feet and 
throwing her arms around Eva. “ Queen Mab is your 
godmother, and has enriched you with fairy gifts; living 
all your life in the country, you sing, and play, and paint, 
and dance!” and, passing her arm around her waist, — 


VIOLET. 


121 


for Eva had risen too, — humming a waltz, Violet took 
a few steps; hut Eva stood still. 

“The little folk don’t polk,” she said, smiling up in 
Violet’s face: her cousin had the advantage of her in 
height. 

“Eva, are you a Methodist?” Violet’s alarmed look 
set Eva laughing. 

“What an idea!” she replied. “Don’t you know my 
father was an Episcopal minister?” 

******** 

“You ask me to describe my newly-found cousin,” 
wrote Violet to Belle. “Imagine one of Raphael’s an- 
gels tripping about in human drapery, laughing the 
sweetest laugh that ever rang out from the depths of an 
innocent, merry heart, and saying all sorts of droll 
things, — in short, whatever chances to bubble up at the 
moment; yet dreadfully religious withal, and, when on 
that subject, talks as if she was the oldest inhabitant — 
that respectable individual so often quoted in the news- 
papers. The poor child can’t help being religious ; she 
was brought up by her father, who was a minister. Belle, 
guess, if you can, the amusement she had carved out for 
me ? A course of morning and evening devotion ! But 
the first was our only prayer-meeting. Ridiculous as it 
seems — shall I confess it ? — while listening to her, I actu- 
ally shed tears. The great ‘ I am ,’ who to me has ever 
been an awful, undefined mystery, dwelling far away in 
a misty cloud-world, surrounded by a halo of glory and 
legions of angels and archangels, is to Eva an ever- 
present, loving Father, directing every event of life. 
Leading the dullest, most monotonous existence possible 
with a crabbed old aunt, in a neighborhood consisting of 
three or four families, and not a beau, her little heart 


122 


VIOLET. 


overflows with gratitude for her many mercies — pure air, 
a good table, and extremely plain wardrobe, I suppose, 
for I see no other. Eva quotes the Bible as Augustus 
Eorbes quotes Shakspeare, only with more taste. I had 
no idea it contained so many sublime thoughts. When 
she was speaking of God’s love, the other day, I asked her, 
If such was the case, why we had been so afflicted ? We 
were sitting, at the time, in the deep window-seat in her 
room, watching the moon rise, a pot of geranium by us. 
Plucking a leaf, — ‘ Smell that,’ she said, holding it to my 
nose. ‘It has no perfume,’ I remarked. Crushing it 
between her fingers, ‘ Now , is it not sweet?’ she asked; 
‘thus dear, as the poet hath it, “Afflictions wring man’s 
shy retiring virtues out.” King David, you know, says 
it was good for him to have been afflicted.’ ‘I don’t 
know King David, dear,’ replied I, laughing. ‘Well, 
your favorite Longfellow tells us — 

“In an earlier age than ours, 

The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 

Was gifted with the wondrous powers, 

Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood, 

And gladiators, fierce and rude, 

Mingled it in their daily food. 

Then in life’s goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness ; 

For in the darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give.” 

Unlike some of the righteous we know, Belle, Eva is 
not severe in judging others. She finds fault with no- 
body; her crowning charm is sweet temper; and I test 
her long-suffering famously, I assure you, but have never 
yet succeeded in making her angry. According to the 


VIOLET. 


123 


old proverb, — ‘Evil communications corrupt good man- 
ners,’ — would it not be droll if, unconsciously con- 
tracting this ugly habit of Eva’s of quoting texts, I 
should sport some of Soloman’s wisdom at the opera? 
But for this unsightly thread of Puritanism in her poetic 
mind, the little rustic would be perfectly fascinating.” 

Dear Eva considered religion the golden thread that 
brightened her life, and wished with all her heart she 
could weave it into her cousin’s; and though Violet did 
not know it, it was the secret of the cheerful content 
and the sweet temper she admired so much. 


124 


VIOLET. 


CHAPTER Y. 

Abbotsford was one of those raw, new, decharne 
villages to be found at most of the railroad stations. 
Like the rest, it had its smithy, post-office, school-house, 
apothecary, and omnium gatherum shops. As yet, how- 
ever, it was without a church ; indeed, it seemed hardly 
to require one while there were so many unoccupied 
pews in the barn-like building but a mile distant, erected 
before the Revolution. At all events, the good people 
of Abbotsford appeared to think so, for the ground pre- 
sented for the purpose remained an open lot; and from 
year to year the Rev. Mr. Dunbar’s congregation con- 
tinued to increase until the church was now quite full. 

Mrs. Munson had a great aversion to strangers, and, 
as I have before said, was extremely annoyed that the 
village should butt and bound upon the Elmwood pro- 
perty. But that her dead were sleeping in that old 
churchyard, she would have vacated her pew. Rather 
than be stared at by the new comers, she actually changed 
her seat and listened to the sermon with her hack to the 
minister ! 

Grimes, of the Buck Hotel, Carr Smith, postmaster, 
and Jones, the owner of the grist-mill, (whose incessant 
clatter angered Mrs. Munson as much as the whistle of 
the locomotive,) were the leading men of Abbotsford; 
Mrs. Carr Smith (Mr. Grimes’s daughter) and Mrs. 
Jones, the leading women. The first shop, and, for 
some time, the only shop in Abbotsford, was that of the 


VIOLET. 


125 


firm of Jones & Grimes. They were now rich men; 
poor Mrs. Grimes, manufacturer of the ginger-bread and 
sausages in the window of the little shop, good soul, was 
dead; the present Mrs. Jones was a second wife. With 
the exception of a certain Miss Euphemia Skimpton, 
who circulated in both localities, there was no intercourse 
between the country neighborhood and the village. 

Mrs. Carr Smith and Mrs. Jones, in passing to and 
from church, had frequently talked over the matter, and 
wished for some fortunate chance which might afford 
them an opportunity of getting a glimpse of Elmwood. 
That opportunity presented itself in Violet’s visit; and 
accordingly it was agreed between the ladies that the 
girls — that is, the Misses Jones — should call upon Miss 
Irving, if the visit was returned. Mrs. Carr and Mrs. 
Jones would drive over (Mrs. Jones kept her carriage) 
and invite the family to tea. Bob Saunders, a mill- 
hand, who officiated as coachman on Sundays, received 
orders to dress himself in his best suit, be sure to put 
on his gloves — a gentility Bob disliked extremely — and 
have the carriage at the door punctually at twelve the 
next day. When Debby, throwing open the parlor door, 
announced the Misses Jones at Elmwood, Mrs. Munson’s 
knitting dropped from her hand. Growing very red, an 
alarming scowl upon her brow, she rose from her chair, 
and without advancing a step, bowed stiffly, resumed her 
seat, and applied herself to her work as if her livelihood 
depended ^upon her industry. 

Much amused, Violet watched to see what would come 
next. 

.“It must be the fashion to stare,” thought the unwel- 
come visiters, “as Miss Irving did.” They supposed it 
was; but the Misses Jones wished it was not, it made 
12 


126 


VIOLET. 


them feel so very uncomfortable ; and extremely embar- 
rassed, the exaggerated hoops, flounced silks, Honiton 
lace, and gold bracelets, came to a decided standstill in 
the middle of the room ! 

Feeling for their awkward position, dear Eva, always 
acting out the golden rule, threw aside her work, and 
receiving them very cordially, introduced to her cousin 
Miss Mollena, (born over the shop, and christened 
Nudly ,) and in turn, Miss Cleopatra and Miss Victoria. 
Violet bowed haughtily. The Misses Jones thought the 
bow superb, and practiced it before the looking-glass, 
when they returned home. Stumbling into chairs, and 
playing with their embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, the 
young ladies industriously studied the involved pattern 
of the carpet. 

“Beautiful weather for driving?” said Eva, address- 
ing Miss Mollena. 

“ Very” whispered the young lady. 

“Bather warm in the sun, is it not?” was her next 
attempt, directed to the pearl-swallowing queen. 

“ Quite,” responded Cleopatra (sotto voce.) The 
Misses Jones considered it genteel to speak low. 

“ Warm? it’s right down hot!” bluntly remarked 
Vic., in a boisterous tone. 

Coloring deeply, the sisters gave the young hoiden a 
reproving glance ; and, playing with the bunch of gold- 
washed charms appended not to her watch, — the watch 
was yet to be bought, — but pinned under her basque, 
turning to Mrs. Munson, Miss Mollena said, in a confi- 
dential whisper, — 

“Ma sends her love to you, mam, and is sorry she 
could not come with us; but little Veny has the croup, 


VIOLET. 


127 


and she was afraid to leave her with the servants; 
Veny’s so spoilt, she don’t mind anybody but ma.” 

Blacker grew the scowl, and faster flew the needles, 
while Mrs. Munson listened to the friendly message. 
Stopping, and giving the nervous speaker a flash of her 
keen eyes over her spectacles, — 

U I will excuse the visit,” she said; and dropping her 
eyes, went on with her knitting. 

Miss Mollena colored and looked uneasy, evidently 
uncertain whether to he angry or not. But she remem- 
bered the dresses in progress at home, and her mother’s 
reiterated injunctions, to he sure and find out the 
fashions from Miss Irving. 

Following the instruction “ au pied d’lettre ,” — 

• “Miss Irving,” bawled Vie., across the room, “will 
long waists be worn this summer?” The Misses Jones’ 
were down to their hips. 

“Longer than ever,” replied the mischievous girl. 

“And flowing sleeves?” 

“Yes.” 

“And long skirts?” 

“Yes, trailing and dirty;” and Violet glanced at 
those before her. 

“Thank you; I wanted to know, because Mrs. Carr, 
(she’s Mrs. Carr Smith; but we all call her Mrs. Carr,”) 
and Miss Vic. giggled, as she gave this interesting infor- 
mation, — “Mrs. Carr bought us beautiful lawns, and sum- 
mer silks, when she was in Philadelphia last week ; and 
you know it would be a pity not to make them up in 
the fashion.” 

“Beproving and angry glances were lost upon Miss 
Vic. ; she was not to be silenced ; and probably appre- 
hending some further disclosures, the sisters rose to take 


128 


VIOLET. 


leave. Miss Mollena was next to Mrs. Munson ; and, 
very much confused, offered, then drew back her hand. 
Erect and unbending as the pillars of the porch, the 
mistress of Elmwood stood before her chair, — a slight, 
very slight, inclination of the head was the only notice 
she vouchsafed to the retiring guests. Understanding 
at last the conduct which at first seemed to puzzle her, 
Mollena flirted angrily passed her, and going up to Vio- 
let, and presenting three bony fingers bursting through 
bright orange kids, said, mincingly, — 

“Do come soon; we hope to see a great deal of you; 
drop in any time.” 

Another freezing bow, and “Thank you, I am not 
visiting;” the words falling like icicles; and, angry as 
Mrs. Munson, the Misses Jones returned home to inform 
mamma of the fashions and the rudeness they had re- 
ceived. 

“Isn’t that Mr. Dunbar, Eva?” asked Mrs. Munson, 
who, glad to be rid of the Misses Jones, had gone to the 
window and was looking after the yellow carriage as it 
rolled down the avenue; “how comes it he’s walking?” 

Eva ran out to the old minister, and Mrs. Munson 
met him at the door. 

“A glass of water, if you please, my dear?” said he 
to Eva, as he sank panting into the chair Mrs. Munson 
rolled forward for him. 

“Wine, Eva; here are the side-board keys;” and 
taking them out of her pocket, Mrs. Munson handed 
them to Eva. 

“No, thank you; I am only out of breath; the walk 
was too long for me; I shall be better presently;” and 
wiping the perspiration from his forehead, handing Eva 


VIOLET. 


129 


back the tumbler, he said, very sadly, “I could not go 
away without coming to bid you good-bye.” 

The venerable minister was for years as much a fix- 
ture in the parish as his church; Mrs. Munson would 
as soon have expected the mossy belfry to call to take 
leave. 

“ Going! where are you going to?” she inquired, ex- 
ceedingly surprised. 

“God only knows!” replied Mr. Dunbar, in a tone of 
hopeless, helpless distress. 

Eva, — with that look of a sorrowing angel, which struck 
Violet so much the first evening she saw her, — hanging 
over his chair, took the old man’s hand in hers; and, 
when with a sigh he added, his voice trembling as he 
spoke, — “I sent in my resignation yesterday,” — burst- 
ing into tears, sobbed out, “Oh! Mr. Dunbar, you are 
not going to leave us?” 

“God bless you, my child!” and as he spoke the 
old minister laid his hand on her head caressingly. “ Go 
where I will, never shall I forget you , Eva, or the kind- 
ness I have Received in this house.” 

Going! where are you going to?” asked Mrs. Mun- 
son, almost fiercely. She always spoke as if in a vio- 
lent passion, when her feelings were touched. Strange 
woman ! and scolded, too, dreadfully, all the while she 
was performing the kindest actions. 

For instance, on one occasion, when a child was chok- 
ing with a thimble in its throat, which would not go 
down, and as obstinately refused to come up, poke at it 
as they would, — getting blacker and blacker in the face, 
and everybody around pitying the dear little thing and 
the poor mother, — thrusting aside the sympathizers, and 
12 * 


130 


VIOLET. 


telling the mother she was a fool for leaving the thimble 
where the child could get it, Mrs. Munson grasped it by 
its little fat legs, and, looking as if she was going to dash 
its brain out, shook it furiously. Out popped the thim- 
ble on the floor! the child’s life was saved, and Mrs. 
Munson pronounced, by all present, a cruel , unfeeling 
creature, to speak so crossly to the mother when her 
child was almost in a fit! Under the delusion that she 
was a strong-minded female, and this dry-eyed line of 
conduct proved it, though deeply grieved as Eva at 
the idea of parting with her old friend, Mrs. Munson 
did not, nor would not shed a tear ; if he had been dying, 
she would have pretended her eyes were weak. 

“I have been strangely obtuse,” responded the minis- 
ter, in reply to Mrs. Munson’s question. 

Mr. Dunbar did himself injustice; it was not obtuse- 
ness; guileless old man, he was as unsuspecting and 
simple-hearted as a child. 

“I observed,” he proceeded, “that many of my people 
did not come to church as they were wont to do ; but I 
concluded they, or some of their little ones, were sick ; 
feeble and old, I cannot attend to parochial duty as I 
could wish ; and by the time I got to see them they were 
well. The young folks chose to be married by the 
bishop or some clerical friend; but people will have 
their fancies, and I thought nothing of it. The infants 
were not presented for baptism, which, I own, troubled 
me; and when I remonstrated with the parents, they 
answered rudely; but a rough set, I concluded they 
knew no better. The boys, too, would not come to be 
catechised, and were often far from respectful in their 
deportment toward me; but boys will be boys; thought- 
less, hair-brained fellows, I didn’t suppose they meant 


VIOLET. 


131 


anything by it. I had been followed and courted in my 
day, and, as I pondered it all in my heart, I said with 
righteous Job, — ‘Shall I receive good, and not evil also, 
at the hand of the Lord?’ A sinful man, I felt I de- 
served more chastening than I received.” 

“I knew how it would be, when those people came 
into the parish,” said Mrs. Munson; “I told you they 
would do all the mischief they could.” 

Evidently distressed by the temper she exhibited, 
Mr. Dunbar remarked mildly, — 

“They have treated me badly, but I forgive them.” 

“ The wretches ! if you do , I do not ; they saw they 
could trample on you, and they have done it. Forgive 
them indeed!” 

“Yes you will , my friend; and ere you repeat, — 
‘ Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who 
trespass against us.’ You would not, by the bitter 
alchemy of an unforgiving spirit, change our blessed 
Lord’s prayer into a malediction ?” 

“When they ask my forgiveness, I will not withhold 
it; but so far from regretting, the low creatures are 
perfectly triumphant at the success of their machina- 
tions.” 

“We are not now in the dispensation of an eye for 
an eye, and a tooth for a tooth,” said Mr. Dunbar; 
“but in the blessed reign of love; ‘ though our brother 
offend seventy times seven, we are to forgive him, and 
pray for those who despitefully use and abuse us.’ But 
I was telling you the course the vestry took to enlighten 
my obtuseness; they began by cutting my salary down 
to so small a sum that, that — the old man could hardly 
bring it out — I was obliged to sell Snowdrop.” 

“Poor old Snowdrop!” sobbed Eva. 


132 


VIOLET. 


Mrs. Munson looked angry enough to box the reverend 
gentleman’s ears. She was going to ask why he had 
not acquainted her with the facts before; hut she re- 
membered her generosity, and the old minister’s shrink- 
ing delicacy, and left the question unasked. 

“But that is not all,” continued Mr. Dunbar, with 
more animation than Violet supposed him capable; 
“in despair, at my equanimity, they let loose a pack 
of noisy workmen upon me, to mend an imaginary leak 
in the roof of the Parsonage. I say imaginary, for I ex- 
amined the ceiling carefully and could find no evidences 
of one. The clatter of hammers, and running up and 
down stairs and through the house, almost crazed me ; 
but it could not last long, and I bore it as well as I could. 
Yesterday I was in my study writing, and hearing a chop- 
ping, went to the window to ascertain what it could be. 
Mrs. Munson, judge my feelings when I saw one of the 
trees before the door, planted by my own hand, watered 
and watched, from a little slip, and, in my lonely-hearted- 
ness, loved almost as a child, felled to the ground;” and 
his voice trembled as he added, “when I looked at it 
lying there, fresh and green, in full leaf, and then at the 
hacked stump, the truth, the humiliating truth, flashed 
upon me ! I understood it all; a system of petty insults 
and persecutions to drive me from the parish ! but it is 
not the act of the parish. Thank God, the friends of my 
youth have not deserted me ; but I did not think of it 
then. I fear, at the moment, I forgot the meekness 
which should characterize a follower of Christ; but I 
knew where to go for a better spirit. I locked my study 
door, and on my knees prayed for grace to forgive as I 
would be forgiven ; and, I trust, the letter I wrote, ten- 


VIOLET. 


133 


dering my resignation, was not unbecoming a Christian 
minister.” 

The scarlet spots on Mrs. Munson’s cheeks grew 
brighter and brighter as she listened. 

“ Infamous wretches !” she muttered ; “ they deserve 
to be hung. As you say, for the last two years it has 
been a cruel systematic persecution.” 

“ Yet have I not been scourged, spat upon, crowned 
with thorns, nailed to the accursed tree. My dear, kind 
friend, let us never forget that prayer of love uttered in 
the mortal agony which wrung from our blessed Lord a 
cry that made the sun grow black, earth cleave asunder, 
and awakened the dead, — ‘ Father, forgive them , they 
know not what they do .’ Amazing love! My friend, 
religion is love, Heaven is love , God is love; and if we 
would prove that our religion is the religion of Christ, 
if we desire to share the bliss of Heaven, to dwell with 
Him there, we must strive to fulfil the law of love on 
earth; to love even as Christ loved.” 

He was silent a few minutes ; when he spoke again it 
was to Eva. 

“ Eva, my child, you will be pleased to hear that your 
Sunday scholar cannot be laughed out of saying his cate- 
chism, though the dear little fellow is often the only boy 
at the altar.” And while discussing Jemmie Green, 
dinner was announced. 

Mrs. Munson insisted upon taking Mr. Dunbar home 
in the carriage, thus securing a long private conversa- 
tion ; and Violet, who began to understand the eccentric, 
was sure the poor old minister’s future was the subject. 
Gentlemanly, genial, and simple-hearted, he won Violet’s 
love in that short visit. Abounding in general informa- 
tion, it was delightful the way he talked of his flowers, 


134 


VIOLET. 


his cat, good Hannah, and those little runagates who had 
behaved so rudely to him, good man. Their unkindness 
was forgotten ; you would have thought they were his 
children. The next Sunday was his last in the parish 
to which, fifty years ago, he came a young man. Few 
ministers, perhaps, were ever more popular than Mr. 
Dunbar. The parsonage had been built for him ; and 
very dear was the good old man to his country neigh- 
bors. It was the people of Abbotsford, or the Abbots- 
forders, as Mrs. Munson called them, who, wearying 
of the oft-repeated sermons, were sending him out into 
the world to seek a home to die in. The wife of his 
youth slept beneath the dark cypress in the graveyard, 
with Mrs. Munson’s dead. 

Sunday was a day of great excitement in the parish. 
The church was thronged to hear the farewell sermon. 
When the vestry-room door opened and Mr. Dunbar came 
out, you might have heard the fall of a pin ; but feeble 
and old, though he looked wan as if he had risen from 
the dead to bid farewell, he went through the service as 
usual. Once or twice his voice trembled slightly, and 
those who watched him closely observed a twitching of 
the muscles of his face. In ascending to the pulpit, he 
was obliged to sustain himself by the banisters. 

Some time he remained with his head bowed upon his 
clasped hands, engaged in prayer, his long white hair 
falling over the great Bible and crimson cushion. When 
he raised it, the emotion, no longer to be concealed, was 
visible on his flushed face ; and passing his handkerchief 
quickly across his eyes, — 

“Beloved,” began the discarded minister, “I am not 
here to preach to you. My teachings are ended. I stand 
here to-day to bless you ere I go hence ; to bid you fare- 


VIOLET. 


135 


well. My aged fellow-pilgrims, ye with whom I have taken 
sweet counsel while traveling on our homeward way to a 
better land, whose kindness and affection I have often 
thanked my God for, as one of the chief blessings of my 
life, we part, I trust, friends. May the Lord God of Hosts 
bless, lead, and keep you the short distance we have yet 
to go ; ay, keep and abundantly bless you unto your life’s 
end. And you, my children, — whom I have borne in my 
arms and in my heart, whom I have presented to God, 
at this altar, — may the grace of the Lord God Almighty 
strengthen you against temptation in these evil days, 
and enable you to pass unscathed through whatever trials 
His unerring wisdom may see fit to allot you ; may the 
sanctifying influence of the Holy Spirit rest upon, and 
remain with you, now and for evermore l And you, my 
dear little ones, lambs in the fold of Christ, remem- 
ber ” 

But, becoming deathly pale, he stopped suddenly and 
sank on the bench behind him. His voice — low and tre- 
mulous at first, rising with excitement until every word 
could be distinctly heard in the remotest part of the 
church — was gone. A long, anxious, breathless pause 
followed. At last he rose and attempted to proceed, but 
could not ; and, extending his trembling hands over the 
heads of his persecutors, raising his tearful eyes to Hea- 
ven, in silence he gave the unuttered benediction. There 
was not a dry eye in the church. For some minutes no 
one stirred. Everybody remained standing. Mrs. Mun- 
son was the first to quit her pew. Looking taller and 
fiercer than ever, in her wrath, striding up to the pulpit, 
she stood scowling round on the dispersing congrega- 
tion ; and, as the old minister tottered down the steps, 


136 


VIOLET. 


holding on by the banisters, she caught him by the arm, 
and linking it in hers, said, — 

“ Come home with me;” and she spoke loud enough 
to be heard by all around. “ While I have , you shall 
never want.” 

“Not to-day, not to-day!” replied Mr. Dunbar, in 
a hoarse whisper, deeply affected ; and disengaging his 
arm, taking both her hands in his, pressed them affec- 
tionately. 

“Wretches, they have murdered you!” And Mrs. 
Munson fixed her eagle eyes upon the nearest offenders. 

Mr. Dunbar looked distressed. “ Love your ene- 
mies ,” he would have said; but ere the last words were 
uttered, the blood gushed in a stream from his mouth, 
and, catching at the altar railings, he fell at her feet. 

With a cry of horror, Mrs. Munson strove to raise 
him ; a scene of the wildest confusion ensued ; those 
nearest pressed round the dying man; those who had 
left the church, came back ; others rushed from the 
fearful scene ; children screamed, women shrieked. Mrs. 
Wallingford fainted. Yery much attached to Mr. Dun- 
bar, she had hastened home to hear the farewell sermon. 
The sexton ran for the Doctor ; but Mrs. Munson saw 
nothing but the dying minister weltering in his blood at 
her feet. 

“Away with you!” she cried, as Mr. Jones and Mr. 
Higgins approached. “ Lay not a finger upon the poor, 
harmless old man you have murdered. This is your 
work ; you’ve broken the kindest heart that ever beat ; 
so full of love ;” and her stern, sharp voice grew husky. 
“ But for you , these gray hairs and shrunken limbs would 
have gone down in peace to the grave;” and, seating 
herself on the floor, she took the old man’s head on her 


VIOLET. 


137 ’ 

lap, and as she bent over him to wipe the blood from 
his ashy lips, a tear fell upon the corpse-like face ; hut 
the poor old minister did not know it ; his eyes were 
closed, the blood flowing copiously from his mouth. 

His friends soon gathered round him. Gently, very 
gently, they raised him in their arms and bore him across 
the churchyard to the Parsonage, the lonely home where 
he had suffered so much, with none to sympathize, none 
to speak a word of comfort. The noble-hearted old 
man thanked God! — ay, often and often with all his 
heart — that his sensitive, beloved wife, was sleeping in 
the quiet grave, and spared his anxieties and trials. 
The heavy footsteps resounded through the silent house, 
as they brought the body in and laid it on the bed. The 
patient spirit had taken flight — the weary was at rest ! 

“Poor old man!” sighed Mrs. Munson, as she closed 
his half-open eyelids; “those lips never spoke but in 
kindness.” 

“Sure, an’ it’s God’s trut” sobbed Hannah, wiping 
her eyes with her apron as she stood holding by the bed- 
stead post, gazing at her dead master. 

The noise of their coming in had brought her from 
the kitchen; she could not realize that he was really 
dead. He that, as she said, had walked out of that 
door so well but an hour ago ! 

“Sure,” continued the faithful creature, “the dear 
soul loved everything that had breath in it, down to the 
dumb bastes; everything at all at all. Only last night, 
when he was a-paying me my wages and I a-crying for 
myself as well as for he, — faith and troth it’s many a day 
afore I’ll git sich a home agin, — he gin me this;” and, 
putting her hand in her pocket, she drew forth a dollar. 
‘Hannah,’ says he to me, in a sort of a choky way, 
13 


138 


VIOLET. 


‘keep this to remember me, and take puss home wid 
ye and be kind to her for her ould master’s sake; you’ve 
bin a faithful servant to me, God bless ye;’ ” and, cover- 
ing her face with her apron, Hannah continued her sob- 
bing and lamentations. 

The funeral was the largest ever seen in that part of 
the country ; people came from far and near to it, and so 
long were they in collecting, that the sun had set when 
the procession moved from the door — luckily, they had 
not far to go. 

The graveyard — a melancholy spot, even with the 
sunlight streaming brightly through the thick unpruned 
cypress, willow, and the yew trees; now, with the twi- 
light deepening over it, the old tombstones, cracked 
and overgrown with moss, half sunken in the ground, 
the new looking ghastly and startlingly white among the 
tall, rank grass, wet with the mist rising from the river, 
— was, indeed, a dreary resting-place. The wind sighed 
mournfully among the trees, and ever and anon there 
came a vivid flash of lightning, followed by deep- 
muttered thunder; the frogs croaked in the pond back 
of the graveyard, and the crickets cried shrilly in the 
vines on the old stone wall; the bats, flying round in 
circles, almost touched the faces of the pall-bearers, as 
they walked slowly up the wide gravel-walk to the church. 
Many present remembered the tenant of that narrow 
coffin when the cherished pastor of a loving flock, walk- 
ing up that path with his young bride hanging on his 
arm. They remembered, too, the meek submission with 
which the childless old man laid her, two years ago, be- 
neath the cypress, where the newly opened grave now 
awaited him; and they could not but think what his 
feelings must have been when he tottered along that 


VIOLET. 


139 


gravel path the preceding Sunday to preach his farewell 
sermon. Ah ! those who set the stone in motion cannot 
foresee, as it descends the hill, what crushing force it 
may gather in the rolling; and thus with persecution; 
now, that it was too late, even Jones and Higgins wished 
they had not been so hard upon the old man. 

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes ! The clods fell heavily 
on the coffin; the crowd closed around the grave, and 
among the rest, edging his way through, a sickly-look- 
ing boy, with a tattered straw hat, clambered upon the 
bank of damp earth and looked down into the grave; 
though the little fellow’s patched sleeve was often passed 
hastily across his eyes, a sweet smile was upon his lip, 
for Jemmie Green was thinking how glad he was that he 
had always been respectful and polite to the old minister. 

Good old Mr. Dunbar was at rest. A subscription 
was opened for a tombstone, and a meeting of the ves- 
try called to appoint his successor; but, divided between 
high and low church, after a pompous speech from Mr. 
Grimes, a longer one from Mr. Jones, in which most of 
the long words were mispronounced, a facetious reply 
from Mr. Carr Smith, and a great deal of wrangling, 
the meeting adjourned sine die , having agreed to sub- 
mit the matter to the bishop of the diocese. 

Meanwhile, life passed very quietly at Elmwood; so 
quietly, Eva was afraid, now the novelty had passed, her 
cousin would tire of the monotony of the country. 

A passionate lover of flowers, Eva had vainly tried to 
set her digging and delving; but in her awkwardness Vio- 
let tore her dress, scratched her hands with the thorns, 
and, disgusted with the squirming earth-worms and mis- 
erable from her insane apprehension of freckles, her 
face buried in a long sun-bonnet, soon sank on a garden 


140 


VIOLET. 


chair in the shade of a magnificent tulip-tree ; and com- 
fortably established there, she watched Eva at work; 
hut tiring of that, quickly returned to the house. Walk- 
ing was almost as much out of the question. Violet never 
stirred out that a dog did not bark at her, a vicious cow 
look as if it was going to toss her on its horrid horns, a 
horse prance by and almost run over her, a toad leap on 
her foot, or a bee or wasp get on her bonnet, or, worse 
still, some shocking spider conceal itself in her dress and 
sting her dreadfully. Besides, the stones bruised her feet 
sadly and tore her thin French boots, (and, unaccustomed 
to the country, she had provided herself with no other.) 
Then, too, her skirts got muddy and draggled ; and driv- 
ing in the rough roads was quite as alarming. Dora had 
galloped over twice since her return, but unfortunately, 
on each occasion, Violet had missed her: the first time 
she was out on one of those perilous drives, over deep 
ruts, large stones, and wooden bridges moving under the 
horses’ feet as they passed over; the next, Eva and her- 
self had gone to the bower with their books and guitar, 
and, hearing how they were engaged, Dora declined 
joining the party. 

Eva was very proud of her bower : a cool wilderness 
of shade, formed by the interlacing boughs of a clump 
of horse-chestnuts, elms, oak, and silver ash; a wild 
grape twining and twisting itself fantastically among 
the branches, formed on one side a leafy screen, imper- 
vious to the eyes of passers-by, if any there should 
happen to be ; in a grassy path, used only by the domes- 
tics of the family ; its carpet, short velvet sward, fresh 
and green, brightened with glimmerings of sunshine, 
which came checkering through the waving boughs 
overhead; the furniture, a low table and a couple of 


VIOLET. 


141 


rustic chairs, made of twigs with the bark on, twisted 
fancifully together — Joe’s handy-work. Such was the 
bower where, of a summer’s afternoon, Eva spent many 
an hour with her books, guitar, and pencil; vistas cut 
through the trees afforded beautiful views of the sur- 
rounding landscape. That which Violet had admired so 
much was before her, — the clear water, trees, and glow- 
ing sky, — save that now the boughs, dipping in the 
water, ever and anon rose and waved over it as the 
wind danced through them. Violet had not expressed 
half her delight, when Debby came to say that Miss 
Temple was at the house. As Eva predicted, Violet 
was charmed with Miss Mary, though at the present 
moment she would rather she had remained at home. 
Not so Eva; handing Violet Cranford, which they had 
been laughing over, and brought with them to finish, 
and snatching up the guitar, she tripped gaily hack to 
the house, happy at the thought of seeing dear Miss 
Mary. 

Young and old loved Miss Mary. There was no- 
thing very marked about her appearance, excepting 
that without being at all prim or precise, her dress was 
always fresh and exquisitely neat ; cheerful, affectionate, 
gentle, and sympathetic, she entered at once into what 
her friends happened to be doing, or feeling. With Miss 
Mary, the gilding never wore off from the chain of 
friendship: she resented no petty slights and fancied 
unkindness; never snapped its links asunder by out- 
breaks of temper, thus “ making empty places around 
the heart’s once crowded hearth ; friends the grave doth 
not cover, whose graves the grass doth not grow over, 
yet are they gone, gone from us forever .” Miss Mary 
had no such aching voids to weep over. It was her 
13 * 


142 


VIOLET. 


boast, — if we could imagine Miss Mary boasting , — and 
a proud boast it was, that she never lost a friend. 

Uncle Harry (the sobriquet by which the brother was 
known among his intimates) was with her. Violet had 
never had the pleasure of seeing him before ; but it did 
not require much time to make the bachelor’s acquaint- 
ance ; he could be read at a glance. He was very fond 
of young ladies, — pretty ones especially, — and amused 
with his faded gallantries, Violet and Uncle Harry were 
at once on the best possible terms. A man of leisure, 
having nothing to do but to cherish the curling locks 
that fringed the bald space on the top of his head and 
jauntily cut imperial (of a most suspicious reddish-purple 
tinge,) and write execrable verses, (he was always scrib- 
bling.) Delighted in the anticipation of a flirtation, 
every woman at all polite to him he believed to be 
desperately in love with his fascinating person or bril- 
liant talents. Murad the Unlucky never was guilty of 
greater or more frequent blunders than Uncle Charley. 
If there was a subject above all others which should 
not be touched upon, Uncle Charley was sure to intro- 
duce it ; if he happened to be in company with a lady 
who was married twice, he invariably called her by the 
name of her first husband; and woe be to the corns 
in his proximity, for he never went up to speak to any 
one that he did not tread on their toes; and as to tea- 
cups and plates , the lady of the house trembled for her 
china when in Uncle Charley’s hands. 

The Temples’ carriage was not out of the avenue when 
Mrs. Wallingford and her husband drove to the door; 
I say Mrs. Wallingford and her husband, for everybody 
in the neighborhood did. Poor man, though extremely 
gentlemanly and pleasing, he did look as if his life had 


VIOLET. 


143 


been passed in an intensely hot dressing-room, sympa- 
thizing with an ill wife ; his velvet tread would not have 
frightened away a mouse, and his subdued, sweet voice, 
had something quite lulling and somniferous in it. The 
ill wife, in a stylish wrapper, with the last new novel 
in her hand, was always on the sofa; every chink and 
crevice stuffed or listed, to keep out the air and pre- 
vent the possibility of a draft; a large wood-fire (she 
could not stand coal) blazing on the hearth, when the 
air without was balm and the thermometer standing 
at sixty. Fresh as a rose and plump as a partridge, a 
bundle of shawls tripped lightly up the steps and into 
the parlor, and, on being introduced, shaking hands 
with Violet, assured her her nerves were so dreadfully 
shattered and she so miserable an invalid, that nothing 
would have induced her to venture the long drive but 
the anxiety she felt to welcome Mrs. Munson’s niece to 
their quiet neighborhood. She forgot, poor lady, though 
the slamming of a door would throw her into hysterics 
or bring on a most extraordinary state of insensibility, 
which she termed fainting, (during which, strange to say, 
she could distinctly remember whatever passed,) yet that 
she always found health and energy for any little frolic 
she fancied. Mrs. Munson was very urgent that they 
should remain to dinner, but Mrs. Wallingford declined, 
protesting she would love to do so, but it was quite out 
of the question ; she was even now all in a tremor, and 
would, she was sure, be obliged to go to bed the moment 
she got home. 

“Mr. Wallingford, your arm!” and the languid lady 
rose slowly from her chair. 

The husband, who looked much more as if he needed 
a support, begging Eva to excuse him, broke off in the 


144 


VIOLET. 


middle of a sentence, and flew to the assistance of his 
delicate wife. 

****** 

A letter had been received from the bishop, stating 
that the Rev. Allen Eubank had accepted the call to 
Abbotsford; the village was on the tip-toe of expecta- 
tion. Miss Skimpton, who always prognosticated the 
worst that could happen, and somehow or other, after it 
did happen, though she did not like to say so, knew' that 
it would turn out exactly as it did , said she was sure 
nobody would like to be lectured and sermonized at by 
a young man of six or seven and twenty. Eor her 
part, she thought it great presumption for him to under- 
take to direct and find fault with people older than him- 
self ; ministers always did. Mrs. Carr, not being a spin- 
ster, and having no marriageable daughters, did not 
express much interest about the matter. But Mrs. Jones, 
who had heard that the new rector was not only hand- 
some but rich , was as positive as Miss Skimpton, that 
he would be extremely popular. The vestry had not 
been idle; they had had another meeting, the result, 
that the Parsonage was to he new carpeted and in 
part refurnished; a handsome, rich young man, could 
not he expected to be content with rickety chairs and 
dingy paper. Paper-hangers, white-washers, and painters 
were in requisition. Mr. Jones measured off the carpets, 
and the Dorcas offered to make them up; add it was 
quite amusing to see Miss Skimpton with her specks on, 
seated a la Turk on the floor, surrounded by the girls; 
Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Carr, going round matching figures 
and fitting seams; and as the young ladies plied their 
needles, to hear them guessing who would be the future 
mistress of the Parsonage, and have the care of those 


VIOLET. 


145 


pretty carpets, laughing and blushing and running one 
another, protesting “Not me! oh! no!” and hoping all 
the while it might be. Then, Miss Skimpton mislaid 
her scissors, and made all the girls get up to see if they 
were not sitting on them, and after all found them under 
her own gown; whereupon Vic. Jones grew facetious, 
and stole the spinster’s skein of black thread, and, wink- 
ing to the others, slily passed it round Miss Phemy’s 
neck, — the girls giggling and keeping their eyes on their 
work, for fear of betraying its whereabouts; and hunt- 
ing for thread, Miss Phemy lost her' needle, which Vic. 
kindly replaced with an enormous pin, and everybody 
shouted to see Miss Phemy’s efforts to thread it, — Vic. 
having bet her she could not do it without her specks ; 
which specks, the spinster assured them, she wore only 
because her eyes were weak , and proved it by mistak- 
ing a headless pin for a needle! A merry time the 
Dorcas had making the carpets. 

But the rector has come ! The vestry and wardens 
met him at the depot, and conducted him to his future 
home. Sunday, too, has come; and the bell in the old 
belfry ringing out its solemn invitation, people on foot 
were wending their way through the woods and along 
the green lanes; people in carriages and all manner of 
vehicles, hastening churchward. 

“ That is our family burial place, Violet ; your mother’s 
grave is the one to the left; the new tombstone is my 
brother’s;” and Mrs. Munson pointed, as she spoke, to a 
cluster of graves inclosed within a neat iron railing. 

Violet looked from the carriage window to the spot 
indicated, and shuddered that any one related to her 
should lay, even in death, in so dismal a spot. The sun- 
shine seemed to slant away from the dark cypresses as if 


146 


VIOLET. 


afraid to penetrate their mysterious gloom, and the long, 
white marble slabs looked almost corpse-like, stretched 
out beneath the dim shade. Yet was there a sad pictur- 
esqueness, too, about that neglected country churchyard, 
with its old stone wall, covered -with green moss in 
places, and crumbling away ; in others, stones falling out, 
and where they had fallen weeds springing up, overrun 
with vines, a perfect nest of crickets, that sang there 
the livelong day. The mossy belfry and clumsy church, 
rusty, weather-stained, and vine-draped, with its long, 
arched windows, were quite in keeping with the sombre 
graveyard and dilapidated wall. Sympathizing with the 
persecuted minister the previous Sunday, and occupied 
in discussing his wrongs, Violet had not noticed either 
them or the pretty Parsonage, nestled close beside it, 
and separated from the church only by a high hedge, or 
the low shed, now fast filling with horses harnessed ready 
to be attached to the various vehicles standing about 
under the trees, as soon as the service was over, — gigs, 
buggies, Jersey-wagons, carriages, and market-wagons, 
pressed into service for the occasion. Men, women, and 
children, odd-looking as their vehicles, in groups, stop- 
ping for a moment to shake hands and chat. Had she 
ascended with Jack, on his bean-vine, to the moon, every- 
thing could not have benen more new and strange to her ; 
but she had to follow her aunt and cousin ; .and after 
glancing round the church, seated herself so as to obtain 
a view of the congregation as they came flocking in ; and 
while Eva was devoutly reading the Psalms, she w T as 
watching for the Misses Jones, when her attention was 
attracted, and, considering the place, I am ashamed to 
say, her mirth excited, by a very pretentious person — 
an exaggeration of the present exaggerated style — strut- 


VIOLET. 


147 


ting up the middle aisle ; but though ladies may, pew doors 
do not, extend with the vagaries of fashion, and Mrs. 
Carr Smith was effectually barred out by her hoops ! 
Very red and very angry, she tried a side-long squeeze, 
but the obstinate whalebones puffed up alarmingly in her 
face ; then a decided smash, but with as little success. 
Nothing but a hasty retreat was left her, and jerking 
down her black imitation-lace veil, her slow, consequen- 
tial shake changed into a half run, Mrs. Carr hurried 
home, leaving the lookers-on convulsed with laughter. 

Remembering “ Where two or three are gathered to- 
gether, there will I be in their midst,” like Moses at 
the burning bush, Eva felt the spot was holy ground, 
and consequently endeavored to lay aside every secular 
thought, and, her eyes on her book, lost the sight. The 
Misses Jones came at last, caricatures of themselves, 
followed by ma and pa ; ma in a green moire antique, 
literally tied up in her white embroidered crape shawl, 
a bright canary-colored bonnet, with white ostrich fea- 
thers, the scarlet velvet flowers in the cap contrasting 
with her freckled face. The mamma waddled up the 
aisle, taking short, wriggling steps to keep pace with 
the six-footer, tall and rough of exterior, looking very 
like a human brother of the firs before the church. 

“ Longitude and latitude,” whispered Violet to Eva. 

But the witticism did not provoke a smile; Eva’s sweet, 
serious face bent down over her book, I am not at all 
sure, she heard it ; and Violet did not care whether she 
did or not ; her eyes were on another droll object, — the 
round, rosy mother of a family, hustling in her little 
brood into the pew behind them. Settling herself com- 
fortably in the corner, she beckoned the eldest to her, 
and seizing it by the arms, plumped it down on the seat 


148 


VIOLET. 


beside her, and stretching over, jerked first one and then 
another child into its place, and taking off the cap of 
the three-years-old, all eyes and pantaloons , smashed it 
down on the low stool at her feet, the little chap making 
shocking faces, and keeping the other children in a gig- 
gle, though the mother frowned and shook her head at 
them, the living representative of a toy mandarin. The 
hell ceased its tolling; the vestry-room door opened; 
every eye was on the new rector. 

“ Heavens, Eva, how handsome ! the most intellectual 
face I ever beheld!” whispered Violet. “So pale and 
benignant ; I abhor a fat , florid minister ; the man’s 
superb !” 

“Violet, read the motto over the pulpit,” responded 
Eva, in a guarded whisper; and Violet did read, and 
loud enough to be heard in the next pew. 

“ The Lord is in his holy temple ; let all the earth 
keep silence before him !” Encountering Eva’s anxious, 
reproving glance, — 

“You are a Methodist ,” she said. “ Why did you 
deny it ? I havn’t the least doubt you shout, too, when 
the discourse is moving. He looks as if he might be 
pathetic , so I’ll move my seat before you begin;” and, 
true enough, crossing to the other side of the square, 
uncomfortable, high box, still to be met in old country 
churches, and in St. Peters, in Philadelphia, she smiled 
behind her book at Eva. 

Poor Eva, how it pained her to hear her cousin’s light 
tone, breaking , even while responding to the command- 
ment, “ Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy 
God in vain !” 

The young minister read most impressively. The 
earnest supplications seemed the spontaneous language 


VIOLET. 


149 


of his own heart. His countenance, his manner, the 
solemnity of his rich, deep voice, were calculated to so- 
lemnize the most frivolous. The text chosen for the 
occasion was Corinthians, chapter xii. verse 15 : “I am 
determined to know nothing among you, save Christ and 
him crucified.’ ’ Boldly did the young man declare the 
truth, and in a style so simple, it was evident it was the 
gospel , and not himself he desired to preach. His illus- 
trations were striking, at times thrilling, in their simpli- 
city. In alluding to the awful scene enacted in the 
church but a few Sundays past, he reminded his hearers 
that they, too, might he called as suddenly to appear 
before the bar of God ; and besought them, as one who 
would have to give an account of their souls, to flee from 
the wrath to come. Eva’s eyes filled ; it was just so her 
father preached. Violet was thinking that one so hand- 
some and talented would be an interesting lover . Mrs. 
Munson thought neither of the man nor his sermon. 
She had just been informed by Miss Skimpton that Mrs. 
Jones intended to give a party, by way of introducing 
the new minister to his parishioners, and, disagreeable 
as it would be to have the Abbotsforders at her house, 
she had made up her mind if Mr. Eubank was to be in- 
troduced, it should not be by Mrs. Jones ; and planning 
an interview with the young minister before Mrs. Jones 
could have an opportunity to give her invitation, she 
heard little that was said. 

“ We shall have prayer meetings,” remarked Mrs. 
Jones, sneeringly, to Miss Euphemia Skimpton, as soon 
as the congregation was dismissed. 

“ He had better ascertain, first, if anybody will attend 
them,” responded Miss Phemy, in the same tone. 


i 




14 


150 


VIOLET. 


“What splendid eyes he has!” exclaimed Mollena, 
rolling up her rayless orbs. 

“And beautiful white hands !” chimed in Cleopatra. 

“ Don’t he making dunces of yourselves, girls ; neither 
of you’ll catch him,” said Vie. “His splendid eyes 
were constantly on the Munson pew. I don’t believe 
he saw one of us or anybody else.” 

Mrs. Munson was not the only one who meditated an 
introductory tea. Mrs. Higgins and Mrs. Carr Smith, 
equally ambitious and more politic than their friend, 
Mrs. Jones, kept their secret to themselves, lingered in 
church, each hoping to be the first. 

Laying aside his bands, and hanging up his surplice 
in the closet in the vestry-room, Eubank, unconscious 
of the honor awaiting him, quitting the church by a side 
door, was walking slowly down the gravel path along 
which his predecessor had so lately been carried to his 
last resting-place, thinking of the poor old man, when, 
as he got to the gate, Mrs. Munson, an able calculator 
of chances, pounced upon and secured the prize ! 


VIOLET. 


151 


CHAPTER VI. 

The contemplated tea was a serious affair. Deter- 
mined it should be understood in Abbotsford that it was 
not intended as a compliment to the village, but to the 
minister, Mrs. Munson declared she would ask every liv- 
ing soul in the congregation, from the pastor down to 
the sexton. The man drank, to be sure, but he was not 
a fool; he’d keep sober for the occasion. The notice 
was inconveniently short, considering a parish was to be 
feasted, and no other assistant to be obtained but that of 
Minda, the itinerant pastry cook, who went out by the 
day manufacturing very mediocre cakes and pies. The 
party was to come off on Monday evening ; and the family 
up by times, prayers and breakfast were hurried over. 
But anxious as she was to get to work, Mrs. Munson 
remained to wash up the cups. She said she could tell 
when they were left to the servants; the handles were 
always sure to be dirty; she never drank tea at those 
bouses. Her standing excuse at the Wallingfords’ was, 
that she had a late dinner. 

When the ladies went into the kitchen, after breakfast, 
they found Minda fussing round, weighing out butter, 
flour, &c. Eva had a great deal to do, helping every- 
body, besides arranging the parlors and dressing the 
flower-pots. Violet was a looker-on. The part assigned 
her at home, on such occasions, was to fill out the cards. 
Here were no cards to fill out. This was a new phase 
of life to her; and, amazed at the trouble involved, 


152 


VIOLET. 


she wondered people ever should have company; and 
accomplished and superior a person as Miss Irving 
was, feeling very ignorant, and rather in the way, 
she had serious thoughts of absconding, when, happen- 
ing to glance toward a corner in the farther end of the 
kitchen, she encountered an object that put to flight 
all other ideas and set her off in a perfect gale of fun. 
Minda’s daughter, — a tall slip of a girl, dressed in a 
brilliant calico and white apron, the little woolly knots, 
which usually gave to her head the appearance of a sooty 
chimney, scratched out and sleeked down, as she ele- 
gantly expressed it, with bergamot pomade that per- 
fumed the premises, — in a corner with the marble mor- 
tar in her lap, demurely pounding spice. 

“Heavens, Eva!” Violet could scarcely speak for 
laughing; “the creature is the very twin of Mrs. Ives’s 
knocker, — puffy cheeks, flat nose; the very color!” 

Minda was black as a coal; Jemima a mulatto. Very 
hard had Eva tried to break Violet of this profane habit 
of exclaiming “Heavens” upon all occasions. Personal 
ridicule she considered a breach of the law of love , and 
never encouraged it by laughing when she could help it, 
though making very merry over things , as she would 
with the aforesaid queer knocker, had she seen it un- 
connected with poor Jemima, or Mima, as Minda called 
her daughter- Violet understood full well the rebuke 
conveyed in the grave shake of the head, as Eva hurried 
off in search of the nutmeg Mrs. Munson was seeking. 
Debby was frothing eggs; the operation appeared simple 
enough; and, convinced she could accomplish that, at 
least, Violet offered her assistance; but, easy as it 
seemed, it was beyond her abilities ; the harder she beat, 
the flatter grew the whites, and, her arm aching, she 


VIOLET. 


153 


handed back the dish to the girl with a weary, disgusted 
sigh. There was magic in Debby’s touch; in a few 
minutes the eggs were in a beautiful curd, and, called 
away at the moment, she asked Violet to stir them into the 
sugar and yolks in the bowl on the table. Without de- 
signating which bowl, — for there were two, both with very 
much the same sort of yellow mixture, — and thoughtless 
as Debby, resting the dish on the edge of the nearest, . 
as the froth slipped in, Violet stirred away, happy to be 
occupied. 

“Stop, stop!” screamed Mrs. Munson from the other 
end of the kitchen. 

“Oh, Miss!” cried Debby, running to Violet with a 
frightened look, “the whites is in them aready; faith 
and troth, it was jist t'other one I mained.” 

Coming to the table, and leaning with both hands upon 
it, Mrs. Munson gave an angry flash of her sharp eye 
up over her spectacles at Violet, and then down into the 
bowl, as she said in a desponding tone, — 

“ Cake and custard both spoiled, and no more eggs in 
the house! What am I to do?” 

Not that Mrs. Munson was asking advice; that she 
never condescended to do under any circumstances; 
the question was throwrn out in a sort of parenthesis; 
an expletive to prove she and the custard were equally 
injured. Poor Violet felt as if she was the greatest 
criminal out of Moyamensing Prison. 

“Are you sure, Debby,” asked the aggrieved lady, 
“that you brought all the eggs from the fowl-house?” 

“ Sure! and fait an’ I’d laid down my life for it there 
aint one more, but jist them you tould me to kape to set 
the speckled hen on;” and Debby’s eyes were large as 
saucers, her face red as her hair. 

14 * 


154 


VIOLET. 


“Miss Munson,” and coming to the table, shovel in 
hand, (Minda was raking the coals out of the oven,) 
setting her arms a kimbo, and scorching her gown, “ We 
pastry-cooks has to keep eggs on han’ ; I can let you 
hab some if you’ll give me my price.” 

Minda’s percentage was extortionate; Mrs. Munson 
told her so ; but, glad to get them at any price, for once 
she consented to be cheated, and handing Jemima the 
key of the closet, — 

“Go, git dem, Mima,” said the consequential pastry- 
cook, “and min you don’t stay; run all de way, an if 
you fall down, don’t wait to git up.” 

Minda was as fond of her joke as Dr. Morgan. The 
girl snatched her sun-bonnet from behind the door where 
she had thrown it, and was hastening off, when a nail, 
which for the last week had torn everybody’s apron or 
dress that happened to pass it, (and on each occasion 
Rose, the cook, blaming herself for not doing so before, 
protested she would drive it in as soon as she had fin- 
ished what she was then about, and as often forgot to 
do it,) caught Mima’s frock, and tore an alarming hole 
in it. 

“Drat de ting!” muttered Mima, stopping short, and 
disconsolately eyeing the great three-cornered rent in 
the brilliant calico. 

“Wot you stan’ dare for, you varmant /” and Minda 
made an unmistakable demonstration with the shovel ; 
whereupon, dropping her dress, Mima fled. 

Borrowing Debby’s scissors, Eva took from the snowy 
dresser, glittering with blue and white India china, a 
small basket, and proposed to Violet to go into the gar- 
den to gather flowers for the vases. Violet, ever with 
the fear of freckles before her eyes, stopped for her sun- 


VIOLET. 


155 


bonnet, and they proceeded to the garden ; hut sadly did 
Eva rue taking Violet with her; the havoc she made 
among her pet flowers was frightful ; recklessly running 
about, Violet twisted off great branches, clipping buds 
and new wood without the slightest remorse: the most 
precious and common shared a like fate, as she ran over 
the beds, trampling them down. The little rustic’s sweet 
temper was severely tried, but Eva never forgot, “ Blessed 
are the meek.” 

“See, aunt, how beautiful!” and Eva held up the 
vases to Mrs. Munson, the adorning of which had cost 
her so dearly. 

“See what a litter you have made!” responded the 
aunt, sharply; “the table and floor are covered with 
leaves and stems.” 

“Oh, I’ll easily remedy that!” and passing her hand 
quickly over the table, Eva gathered them into her apron, 
and, taking a broom from a side closet, the leaves and 
stems were soon sparkling and cracking in the fire. 

“Miss Munson!” cried Jemima, rushing in, out of 
breath, “Mr. Joe’s come; I seen him git out ob de cars; 
he’s crossing d efiel’!” 

Mrs. Munson was stooping over the fire at the mo- 
ment, stirring something in a saucepan, and, starting 
forward, the handle catching in a hole in her apron, 
(torn by that very nail in the door,) over it went; but 
she did not see it ; she was off to the porch, the spoon in 
the hand shading her eyes; but instead of rushing to 
meet her son, standing stalk still, — 

“Joe, Joe!” she cried, in her shrillest tone, “why 
don’t you clean your boots on the scraper? what were 
scrapers made for?” 


156 


VIOLET. 


“For those who like them, mother;” and, running up 
the steps, Joe gave her a hearty kiss. 

“I do wish we could order her to her room, and post- 
pone the meeting until to-morrow,” whispered Violet to 
Eva. 

But Eva was at the door to receive her kiss ; and as 
Joe, hardly waiting for an introduction, rushed up to 
Violet, she thought her turn had come ; her next thought 
was, if the face was a true index to the character, Joe’s 
indicated a vast deal of mischief. 

“What brings you home, Joe?” asked Mrs. Munson, 
bluntly ; she was afraid he had been expelled, for he was 
always playing practical jokes upon the professors. 

“The measles,” replied Joe, laughing; “two young 
men died of it, and I had permission to go home.” 

“You had the measles when you were a baby, Joe,” 
said Mrs. Munson, sharply. 

“I know it, mother,” responded the young hopeful, 
coolly. 

The soup was served, and the next course on table, 
when, highly perfumed with bad cologne, Joe walked 
into the dining-room. Busily carving, Mrs. Munson 
did not look up; but when she did, — 

“What have you been after all this time, Joe?” she 
asked. “Dressing an hour, and forgotten to wash your 
face! Your chin and lip are covered with coal-dust!” 

J oe crimsoned to the very roots of his hair. To display 
that dark down on his lip and chin was one of his chief 
inducements for the present visit. He had never passed 
the looking-glass these two months, without stopping to 
admire it, and wonder what they would think at home 
when they found he could raise a beard. The mother’s 
notice of it was intended to kill the caterpillar. Ruth- 


VIOLET. 


157 


less were her attacks upon the weakness of friend and 
foe ; not that she at all wished to mangle people’s feelings, 
but it really seemed to be Mrs. Munson’s vocation. She 
slid as naturally into the hateful and offensive, as the 
fascinating into those nameless captivations which ren- 
der them irresistible. When she thought people fools, 
it did her heart good to tell them so. 

Dessert was omitted. So anxious was Mrs. Munson to 
get dinner over, and the room in order for the expected 
guests, that she scarcely allowed J oe to recover from the 
attack upon his infant beard before she ordered the table 
cleared. The girls went up stairs, and Mr. Joe strolled 
down to the bench on the bank, to smoke the cigar he 
would not venture upon in the house. 

“Violet, Violet, wake! it’s time we were dressing,” 
and Eva gave her a gentle shake. 

Violet was not asleep, but, feeling lazy, she kept 
her eyes closed. Slipping softly off of the bed, Eva 
crept on tip-toe to the wash-stand, and dipping up some 
water in the hollow of her hand, threw it in Violet’s face. 
Starting to her feet, Violet snatched up the queer three- 
legged stool and chased her around the room. 

“Eva, Eva!” cried Joe, at the door; but the girls, 
laughing, did not hear him; “I’ve brought you some 
flowers to dress your hair;” and a great bony hand was 
thrust in with a bunch large enough to dress the room. 
Poor Eva was doomed to be tried that day, through her 
flowers. 

“Girls, girls! here’s Miss Phemy; I know her foot- 
step. Listen! she’s coming up stairs!” and as Joe 
spoke, a figure in a cloak, followed by a little girl, bear- 
ing a band-box, glided up the front stairs. “Dear crea- 
ture, I must get her a bouquet. Violet, doesn’t she 


158 


VIOLET. 


look like a cat? I wonder, with her antipathy to the 
feline tribe, how my mother can be so intimate with 
Phemy.” 

Yiolet laughed. 

“Don’t encourage him, Yiolet, he’s too bad,” said 
Eva. 

“Don’t, I beg of you;” and Joe’s look of entreaty 
was so droll, Eva laughed in spite of herself. 

“Did you ever hear any one sweeten their wormwood 
with dear , and poor thing , as she does? Don’t go 
away; let the door be open; it’s not time to dress yet; 
I want to show you her bouquet;” and he ran down 
stairs, two steps at a leap, and in a few minutes was 
back; he had the grace to knock, though not to wait 
for permission to come in, and, opening the door, sans 
ceremonie, “Here it is;” and he held up a bunch of 
bitter herbs, a thistle stuck in the centre, confined with a 
faded ribbon begged of Debby. 

“Oh, Joe!” remonstrated Eva, “you won’t give it to 
her; it will hurt poor Miss Phemy’s feelings.” 

“I promise to abstain from treading on her corns, or 
pinching her, and her feelings will be very comfortable; 
she’ll be mad as a hornet, I know ; but have you any 
hot water? the type is not perfect; it needs wilting 

“If I had, I would not give you a drop, you disagree- 
able fellow!” said Eva. 

“Nonsense, Eva, you needn’t try ; you don’t know how 
to be in a passion;” and, laughing, Joe hurried off to 
Miss Skimpton with the bitter bouquet. 

“Who’s there?” creaked a thin, wiery voice, with a 
strong nasal twang. 

“ Me, Joe, Miss Phemy,” was the reply. “ I’ve come 
to say how do ye do ?” 


VIOLET. 


159 


“ How do ye do ?” squeaked Miss Skimpton, impa- 
tiently. 

“I have a bouquet for you,” cried Joe through the 
key-hole, in the most cheery, pleasant manner. 

“ Me ! thank you ; wait a minute.” 

And in that minute Miss Skimpton made up her mind 
to tell everybody a gentleman had presented her with 
the beautiful bouquet ; and, in her hurry forgetting her 
false front and teeth, she opened the door, and holding 
it ajar, extended a yellow arm and clawy hand for the 
gift, in her eagerness to secure the prize, never remem- 
bering to shake hands ; but when she saw the thistle , 
fringed round with wormwood and coarse grass, tossing 
it in Joe’s face, she slammed the door to so suddenly, 
that, had he not jumped back, his nose would have been 
smashed. 

Their toilets made, the girls, descending to the parlor, 
encountered Joe on the steps ; they found Mrs. Munson 
busily engaged in arranging and lighting the candles and 
lamps. 

“There’s Dora!” said Eva, as horses’ feet clattering 
up to the door announced an arrival. 

“Hush ! not a word;” and as he spoke, slipping be- 
hind the door, Joe started out upon her as the little 
lady passed in. 

“ Joe !” exclaimed Dora, in a tone of mingled surprise 
and delight ; “ what has brought you home, you torment ? 
expelled, are you?” 

Then came shaking of hands and explanations ; and 
Dora’s voice was in truth so very soft, her smile so 
sweet, and she looked so pretty in the new pink tissue, 
that Violet found it difficult to recognize the shooting, 
fishing girl, followed by a pack of dogs, the Doctor had 


160 


VIOLET. 


described ; though the bright, laughing, spirited, piquant 
face betrayed, at a glance, the bond of union between 
the two friends. 

“Dora,” questioned Mrs. Munson, busy drawing up 
the wick of an astral lamp, “is your mother coming?” 

“I suppose so, neighbor,” — she always called Mrs. 
Munson neighbor ; “ Martha and the curling-iron were 
going up stairs as I came down ;” and, mimicking Mrs. 
Munson to admiration, Dora drew up the wick of the 
other astral lamp so high that the flame shot up above 
the shade. 

“Fire!” cried Joe. 

“Dora, don’t you know glass breaks?” and, pushing 
her aside, Mrs. Munson lowered the light. 

The guests were arriving ; planted near the door, Mrs. 
Munson received them with a grim rigidity of muscle 
and asperity of tone which the deluded lady really be- 
lieved to be the extreme of dignity, and which quite 
overawed and angered the Abbotsforders. 

“ Let us get in this corner by the window,” said Dora ; 
“ the curtain between us and the actors, it will be as 
good as a play; but first tell me, Joe, what can this 
young lady do ?” 

“ Scratch and pull hair,” answered Joe, gravely. 

“So can and Dora made a demonstration as if 
about to tattoo, Yiolet holding her fan before the threat- 
ened cheek. 

“Who is that?” asked Yiolet, as a lean, sallow man 
bowed solemnly to Mrs. Munson. “ He’ll never recover 
his equilibrium.” 

Instead of answering the question, crossing over to 
the extraordinary individual, Dora took him by the arm, 
and walking him up to Yiolet, introduced Mr. Dobson ; 


VIOLET. 


161 


and, slipping behind her chair, entered into conversation 
with Joe. 

Tall and erect as the Lombardy-poplar before the 
shop-door of Dobson and Pots, the principal of the 
firm stood a moment in awkward silence, cleared his 
throat, took his handkerchief from his pocket, unfolded 
it, looked earnestly at it as if hoping to find therein an 
idea, and after glancing at the ceiling, coloring deeply, 
stammered, (Mr. Dobson had an impediment in his 
speech,) — 

“ I thought it was going to rain.” 

He had thought no such thing ; it was a bright, sun- 
shiny day ; not a cloud to be seen. 

“ Indeed !” and Violet played with her black fan. 
Another pause, which Mr. Dobson interrupted with, — 

“ Are you fond of the country, Miss?” 

“Not particularly.” 

A profound reverence, and Mr. Dobson creaked off 
and joined the Misses Jones. 

“ Such people always creak in the boot,” whispered 
Dora. 

“ Handsome ?” exclaimed Mrs. Carr, looking over at 
Violet ; “ why, Miss Phemy, she’s not even pretty ; I 
read the girl at a glance; she’s a female Caesar; the 
world’s too small for her,” (Mrs. Carr was the blue of Ab- 
botsford,) “and we, I suppose, quite too plebeian; but 
I’d like her to know I think myself as good as any 6 first 
family;’ I wonder what they were before they were first ? 
I , for one, won’t be introduced to her ; the Jones girls 
think her superb, rude as she’s been to them ; I think it 
very mean in them to come to-night. 

“ Did you ever see a piece of plated ware, the silver 
15 


162 


VIOLET. 


rubbed off, and the copper showing, Miss Irving?” asked 
Dora. 

“ Apropos to what ?” asked Violet. * 

“ To Joe’s friend. Fetch and carry they call her in 
the village, but I call her my old plated candlestick ; for, 
smirk and agonize at the agreeable as she will, the vixen 
is apparent through all. Did you ever hear her talk 
about our Bishop ? the burning and shining light, and a 
candle set on a hill ?” 

“ Whose plated candlestick are you, Dora?” asked 
Eva, leaning over the back of her chair. 

“Fie, Eva! you eaves-dropping !” and Dora adminis- 
tered a pretty smart tap with her fan. “ Go away; Miss 
Irving, Joe, and I want to be wicked a little while. Go 
and talk Solomon’s Proverbs with the Parson. Miss 
Irving, look beyond creak boots — do you see that ball of 
a man rolling along this way ? That’s postmaster Carr 
Smith. The on dit of Abbotsford is, that his literary 
wife has so great a contempt for needle and thread, poor 
Carr’s clothes are absolutely pinned together. Is it not 
alarming that a fat man like that should waddle about 
without a button ? Uncle Harry and himself both snuff, 
and it is said there is a fearful scattering of pins when 
they indulge in a friendly sneeze. 

“Who shall I help first?” asked Joe, as the waiters, 
with the trays, stopped before them. 

“Miss Irving; I’ll attend to myself;” and Dora rose 
and helped herself. 

In resuming his seat, Joe flourished his cup danger- 
ously near the new pink tissue. 

“ If you dare !” said the young lady; and, starting to 
her feet, she held hers over his head as if about to reta- 
liate by a hot shower-bath. 


VIOLET. 


168 


They had scarcely disembarrassed themselves of their 
cups and plates when Miss Phemy came up and begged 
leave to introduce her friend Mrs. Jones. Queen Eliza- 
beth might, but amiable little Victoria never was guilty 
of so cold and haughty a bow as Miss Irving’s. 

“ Glad to see you, my dear.” Mrs. Jones probably 
admired Violet’s style as much as her daughters, and, 
throwing herself into the chair Joe vacated for her, 
added, “ the girls told me how kind you were about the 
fashions ; isn’t this mantua-making a worrying business ? 
I’m always glad when spring and fall is over. Allow 
me ?” and Mrs. Jones took hold of Violet’s sleeve. “ It’s 
very graceful and easy to make. Would you lend me 
the pattern, my dear?” 

“ Madame Franeau is my mantuamaker,” replied 
Violet, assuming an attitude that effectually protected 
her sleeve from further investigation. 

u Oh, if you havn’t got the pattern, I can cut it ; I’ll 
promise not to muss the dress !” 

Violet bent her head in assent, without speaking ; and, 
her object attained, — 

“ Excuse me, my dear ; Mrs. Higgins is beckoning to 
me; that’s her on the sofa; come here Vic. ;” and the 
step-mother patted the fat, red neck. “ Take my seat ; 
1 know you and Miss Irving will cotton to one another 
in a minute.” 

“When is a neck not a neck, Miss Irving?” asked 
Vic., by way of beginning the cottoning process. 

“I really don’t know,” replied Violet, coldly. 

“ When it’s a little bare ! he, he, he !” and Vic.’s mirth 
exploded in an uproarious laugh. 

But finding Violet not at all smart, as she afterwards 
informed her sisters, edging her chair close, discarding 


164 


VIOLET. 


conundrums, Miss Vic., prefacing her communications 
with the request that Violet would not tell anybody, 
informed her, in strict confidence, that their carriage 
was to be painted as soon as ma and pa could settle upon 
a pretty coat of arms ; that pa was going to run for the 
legislature, and Cleo. was soon to be married to the 
apothecary next door to them ; it was to be a grand 
wedding , and she dare say, when they got intimate, 
Cleo. would ask her for bridesmaid. 

The young minister, meanwhile, hedged in by vestry- 
men and wardens, was rendering himself extremely ob- 
noxious to both parties by siding with neither high or 
low. Eubank not a party man, determined to extin- 
guish, if possible, party spirit among his people. 

44 This is being very selfish, gentlemen,” said Mrs. 
Carr, breaking through the formidable phalanx of boots 
and cravats. 44 You gentlemen should not monopolize 
Mr. Eubank ; we want him to decide a question of the- 
ology;” and, taking the rector’s arm, she carried him 
off*. 44 Sit here;” and, putting aside her dress, Mrs. 
Carr motioned Eubank to the small corner of the sofa 
unoccupied by her extensive hoops. 44 Do you think, 
Mr. Eubank,” and she glanced round at the circle, “be- 
cause one joins the church, they must necessarily give 
up innocent amusements ?” 

Eubank smiled as he requested she would define inno- 
cent amusements. 

44 Why the theatre and balls, and the like ; our Saviour 
himself went to a party, you know.” 

44 Yes, to perform a miracle, and thus convert those 
who were present. 4 It was his meat and drink to do 
his Father’s will.’ If we go to such places with the 
same object in view and a like spirit, and also the same 


VIOLET. 


165 


power to withstand temptation, we may safely venture 
anywhere. The Apostle’s definition of true religion, and 
undefiled before God, is, ‘ To visit the fatherless and 
widow in their affliction, and to keep one’s self unspotted 
from the world;’ and those who faithfully discharge 
these duties find little time, little money, and still less 
inclination, for the amusements you contend for. Frivo- 
lous, indeed, must that person he who would willingly 
pass from a death-bed to a ball-room, and hard the heart 
that could turn from the starving to lavish money upon 
laces and ribbons.” 

“ Well, Mr. Eubank, I said, from what I heard of your 
sermon, this was just the way you would talk and again 
Mrs. Carr glanced significantly at Mrs. J ones. 

“Well,” remarked that lady, with a self-willed, I- 
know-better smile, “ people may say what they like, but 
young people will be young people ; I let our girls dress 
and enjoy themselves as much as they please; when 
they get to be old or in trouble, no doubt they’ll be reli- 
gious enough.” 

“Are you sure they will live to be old?” asked Eu- 
bank. 

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Mun- 
son, who, informing the young minister her object in 
assembling the congregation was to make him acquainted 
with his people, requested he would allow her to do so ; 
and, walking with him through the rooms, she intro- 
duced him generally. The uncut ice-cake, the signal 
for leave-taking, soon followed ; then came the drollest 
courtesying and bowing, and a rush for cloaks and hats. 

“ Deil take the hindmost!” said Dora; “so Joe, please 
look up my things;” and, tying on her bonnet, slipping 
on her riding skirt, she put on her cloak, drew on her 
15 * 


166 


VIOLET. 


gloves, and the whip in one hand, holding up the front 
of her dress with the other, the hack trailing after her, 
nodding good-by, she ran out of the room and down the 
steps, jumped to the saddle and cantered after mamma 
and papa, who, shut up in their luxuriously-wadded car- 
riage, chatted away as contentedly as if the heir appa- 
rent clattering behind had been a hoy. 

* * * * * * 

While these scenes were enacting in Elmwood, the 
current of life flowed on smoothly in Philadelphia. 
Vane wrote briefs, filed deeds, thought of Violet, began 
many letters to her and finished none. Mr. Seaton tied 
his purse-strings in a hard knot. Scold, and pet, and 
coax as she might, the wife could not get a cent. Mrs. 
Seaton and Belle, nevertheless, were very busy preparing 
for their summer’s tour, consulting with the mantua- 
maker, and selecting trimmings. Dr. Theodore visiting 
his patients when he had any, and when he had none, 
lounging in Walnut Street. Mrs. Ives made her daily 
rounds among the poor, Meta sometimes with her, but 
more frequently walking with Ernest. Strange that a 
man so acute in other matters as Mr. Gray, should be 
so obtuse in this ! The truth was, Gray, though occa- 
sionally giving charming little suppers, thought of little 
but the fluctuation of stock. 

Dreadful as was the shock of Mrs. Irving’s death, it 
had passed from the minds of her friends. The noble 
ship founders in the storm, the foaming billows close over 
her, and she is seen no more ; the sky clears, bright and 
clear and calm the sea sparkles in the sunshine ; thus the 
waves of time close over us, and the dead are forgotten. 
A plank of the shattered bark may, perchance, rise to 
the surface, some event recall for a brief moment the 


VIOLET. 


167 


thought of the departed; hut the plank, borne onward 
by the current, is soon lost to sight ; the incident passes, 
and the memory of the dead is gone ! 

Mr. Gray was to have a supper to-night ; hut never 
did Meta feel so unlike entertaining company ! Re- 
markable for her even flow of spirits, she rose that 
morning with a weight at her heart for which she 
could not account. In vain she strove to shake it off, 
repeating to herself the promise, “As thy day so shall 
thy strength he.” It seemed to her she was over- 
shadowed by the wing of death — a feeling altogether new ; 
darkness lay heavy on her soul, increased by the con- 
sciousness that, if she had faith, even as a grain of mus- 
tard-seed, she could say to the mountain, u Be thou 
cast into the sea, and it would be” How incompre- 
hensible, how wonderful are these foreshadowings of im- 
pending doom ! these vague, undefinable apprehensions 
of we know not what, which steal upon the heart like the 
low murmur in the air preceding the coming avalanche ! 
Neither fear nor awe, but a strange mingling of the two 
— a trembling expectancy — the footfall of approaching 
woe echoing through the heart in the darkness of uncer- 
tainty ! Never was hostess more thankful to have guests 
depart than was poor Meta ; and, complaining of not feel- 
ing well, she kissed her father for good-night, and was 
already at the door, when she turned for another look 
at him, as he sat smoking at the open window. In unusual 
spirits to-night, Mr. Gray was the life of the party ; his 
humorous stories even called up smiles to the sad face 
of his daughter. Overcome with a sudden gush of ten- 
derness, Meta returned, and, silently breathing the prayer 
for his eternal welfare which she knew would anger him 
if uttered, pressed her lips to her father’s forehead, 


168 


VIOLET. 


and as she did so a low moan in the corner near them 
made her start. She knew it was only a harp-string 
that had snapped, but she held her breath until it died 
away. Passing his arm around her, Mr. Gray drew her 
fondly to his breast. Meta lay there a moment very 
still, and, twining her arms around him, — 

“Dear, dear father,” she whispered, “another kiss;” 
and, springing to her feet, Meta ran out of the room. 

Her father was in perfect health. Why did she feel 
to-night as if she could not part from him ? Even after 
she had gone up stairs, but for the fear that he would 
think her silly and laugh at her, she would have come 
down again for another kiss, another fond embrace. 

“ Some foolish qualm of conscience !” thought Mr. 
Gray, when he saw her eyes full of tears. “I hope 
she’s not going to be sick ; her mother was very ner- 
vous before she was taken ill.” 

It was a long while since he had thought of the mother ; 
but she was now before him as in life, the loving, delicate, 
fragile, clinging creature. How had he lived so long con- 
tentedly without his pretty Laura ? The moonlight was 
streaming in at the window. Mr. Gray got up and turned 
off the gas, all but one burner, and lowering that, threw 
away the burnt end of his cigar and lit another. With 
the thought of the confiding young wife came incidents 
of their married life, their courtship, other courtships, 
his boyhood, childhood, his father, his mother, brothers, 
and bright young sisters — all in the grave — mingling 
and shifting like the fantastic changes of a dream, as 
the odorous smoke of the exquisite Havana curled around 
him. Long he sat indulging these pleasant musings. 
A cloud came over the moon ; he raised his eyes to the 
darkened sky thick strewn with stars; myriads of 


VIOLET. 


169 


worlds , the work of who ? Chance ? Had accident 
created and retained them in their orbits ? Humbug ; 
the law of nature kept them there. Who made the law 
of nature? What was nature? What, if after all, 
Meta should be right and there be a God ? — a day of 
doom and eternity ? A cold shudder crept through his 
frame ; and Mr. Gray threw away his cigar, rang for the 
servant to shut up the house, and went to bed calling 
himself a d — d fool. 

Restless and nervous, Meta slept little, and rose early, 
more weary and sad than when she went to bed. When 
she entered the breakfast-room, her father was not on 
the sofa by the window, reading the newspaper. For 
the first time her presentiment assumed a tangible form ; 
she would never see him there again ! In an agony of 
alarm, she rushed to his chamber ; “ Father, dear father !” 
she cried, as she ran through the entry. There was 
no answer ; the chamber door was open ; Meta rushed 
in; extended on the bed, his eyes blood-shot, staring 
wildly, his face purple, the veins in his forehead stand- 
ing out like cords, he was breathing that dreadful snore 
which proves the brain the seat of disease. His coat 
lay on the floor ; he had been struck down while undress- 
ing. Meta’s cries drew the servants to the room. Love 
lends wings; Paul had lived with them for years, and 
ere Meta thought it possible he could have got to Dr. 
Morgan’s, he was back to say the Doctor would be there 
immediately. 

“Dying! Good God! Gray dying! Faster, faster !” 
Dr. Morgan kept calling to the coachman, although 
they were tearing along like mad through the streets, 
and everybody staring at the reckless speed at which 
he was driving. 


170 


VIOLET. 


“ So well , and in such spirits last night ! Gray was 
the last man I should have expected to die of apo- 
plexy.” 

As a fast liver, also, the Doctor trembled for himself. 
A messenger had been dispatched for Mrs. Ives, and she 
was there almost as soon as Dr. Morgan. The Doctor 
gave no hope ; the case was plain, there was no need of 
consultation; a vein was opened, and the blood flowed 
drop by drop ; he was put in a hot bath, and speech re- 
turned, but not consciousness. Incoherently he raved; 
the name of God often on his lips, but, alas! only 
as an imprecation. Poor Meta ! what years of misery 
were condensed into those long, anxious hours, spent 
by the bedside listening, hoping, and praying for a 
word, a look, something , anything to shape into a hope 
when he was gone ; one . gleam of reason, if but to say, 
“ God be merciful to me a sinner !” 

She trembled as she listened to the ticking of the 
clock on the mantle stealing away the precious moments, 
fearing each would be his last. Yet, oh! how long the 
hours seemed, as she sat watching for some favorable 
change; for a word, a look, some sign of recognition 
and repentance ! A strange seriousness all at once came 
over his face; he gazed up anxiously at her; Meta 
stooped low over him; great drops burst out on his 
forehead ; his nose became sharp and pinched ; One low, 
deep sigh, — Thou who “tempereth the wind to the 
shorn lamb,” have mercy upon poor Meta! Her father 
is dead! 

“Father, oh, my father!” The poor girl’s very life 
seemed passing from her in that cry of agony; and, cast- 
ing herself down on the bed beside the corpse, she fran- 
tically kissed the ashy lips. 


VIOLET. 


171 


Mrs. Ives offered no consolation ; what could she say ? 
She knew the thought that well-nigh maddened Meta. 
“Parted! parted through all eternity! Lost to me in 
both worlds, my dear, dear father!” Oh! what an 
inheritance for a parent to bequeath his child ! Truly, 
it requires all the balm in Gilead to heal a wound like 
this. 

“Verily, the Lord careth for his own,” was- Mrs. Ives’s 
thought, as she closed Mr. Gray’s eyes. “Plotting to 
entice his child, his only, his darling, loving child, into 
the follies, the thoughtlessness, the sins of a world she 
cared not for. Poor Annie! Unhappy Mr. Gray! 
Where are they now?” 

“Pray for me,” dear aunty, sobbed Meta, as she sat 
leaning her head against Mrs. Ives’s shoulder, in the 
darkened chamber of the old ivy house, hereafter to be 
her home. 

The supporting arm was tightened around the trem- 
bling form ; closer, closer Mrs. Ives gathered her darling 
to her breast, as she whispered, “God doth not willingly 
afflict.” 

“I know it; and I do try to feel — ‘Though he slay 
me, yet will I trust in Him,’ ” sobbed Meta, in broken 
sentences. 


172 


VIOLET. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Strong-minded as she was, the mistress of Elmwood 
confessed one weakness, videlicet, an unconquerable an- 
tipathy to cats; which weakness, however, she main- 
tained, was more her mother’s than her own, being an 
inheritance. Unfortunately, it had descended to Joe, and 
as if in revenge for his unreasonable horror of them, the 
wretches literally haunted the house whenever he was at 
home. Scarcely a day passed, since his return, that a 
miserable little kitten did not get under his mother’s 
dress and set her almost frantic, practicing gymnastics; 
regularly as they sat down to table, some ferocious cat 
was sure to bounce into the room, and, running directly 
to Mrs. Munson, begin to scratch and tear like mad at 
the carpet around her chair. Where the creatures 
came from no one could tell. Every night before 
going to bed, armed with a broomstick and preceded 
by Debby, bearing a light, Mrs. Munson had a regu- 
lar cat-hunt; peeping under beds, wardrobes, and 
bureaus — in fact, into every hole and corner through 
the house, ready to run and shriek if she spied a cat. 
Yet no sooner was she snugly tucked in, and the candle 
out, than, congregating on the landing-place near her 
door, there was so terrific a mewling and spluttering 
and clawing, one would have supposed, of the true Kil- 
kenny breed, the horrid creatures were actually devour- 
ing one another alive. The valerian scattered to attract 
them was soon eaten, and, slipping out of the window 


VIOLET. 


173 


left open for their accommodation, the secret remained 
with the cats, Dora, and Joe. 

The afternoon after the party, Mrs. Munson and the 
girls in the parlor, — dear Eva suggesting excuses, the 
other two discussing the forwardness and vulgarity of 
the Misses Jones, when, going to the window to thread 
her needle, — “How dark it is all at once!” said Mrs. 
Munson; and as she spoke, a vivid flash of lightning 
caused the strong-minded to start back and drop the 
needle; “I’m not afraid of lightning,” she said, as she 
laid by her work, “but it’s a wicked daring of one’s 
- fate to sew in a thunder-storm.” 

“Only see how leisurely Dora and Joe are sauntering 
across the fields, and that black cloud overhead!” ob- 
served Eva, who also had come to the window. 

“Tramping down my wheat as if it was grass;” was 
Mrs. Munson’s angry response. 

“How do ye do?” squeaked Miss Phemy, rushing in, 
out of breath; “I stopped to remind you that the sew- 
ing circle meets to-morrow, and to get my scissors, which 
I left here yesterday, Eva.” 

“Here they are;” and Eva took them from her work- 
basket and handed them to her. 

“ Thank you ! I must tell you a smart thing Mrs. Carr 
said about them. I was dining there, and trying to cut 
something, (they are rather dull ;) grave as a judge, 
‘Phemy,’ says she, ‘is that one of the chew family?’ 
But bless me! it’s going to rain; I must be off.” 

“Nonsense, Phemy; it will pour before you get out 
of the avenue.” 

“No, I walk very fast; good-bye!” and without stop- 
ping to shake hands, she turned to go; but stopped 
again at the parlor door for a few last words, I presume, 
16 


1T4 


VIOLET. 


and before they were said, down came the rain — a 
drenching summer-shower. 

Joe and Dora, as little weather-wise, — or, what is 
quite as probable, too much occupied to observe the 
cloud, — set off at full speed for the house. Dora got 
to the steps first, ran up, tossed her wet bonnet on the 
floor, and giving herself pretty much such a shake as 
the Scotch terrier would un^er similar circumstances, 
came laughing into the parlor. 

“ Girls, did you see the ra. ?”. she asked, out of 
breath. 

“I saw you and Joe trampling down the wheat,” was 
Mrs. Munson’s sharp response. 

“ There, Joe! you naughty fellow; didn’t I tell you 
so?” and Dora mimicked Mrs. Munson’s angry tone 
and frown; “I knew your mother would scold you; as 
for me , 

‘ E’en the slight harebell raises its head 
Elastic from my airy tread ” 

and, holding up her skirts as she spoke, Dora displayed 
a very substantial “ understanding ,” protected by a 
pair of rational thick-soled leather boots. Like Joe, 
she was proof against Mrs. Munson’s wrath. 

“Oh! let her scold; she loves it; it’s good for her 
lungs,” Dora often said to the girls; “don’t mind it; 
do as I do; think of something else.” 

The rain continued, and, as night came on, the wind 
rose ; sweeping down from the hills, it tossed the branches 
of the trees aloft to the dark, starless sky, twisting and 
snapping off great branches as if they had been twigs. 
The lightning — a sheet of flame darted forth in a blind- 
ing flash from the blackness of darkness — for the mo- 
ment, the sky seemed all on fire ; and the thunder, in a 


VIOLET. 


175 


stunning crash, shook the house ; and ere one loud peal 
died away among the hills, it was followed by another 
yet more terrific — the rain beating like hail against the 
windows. 

“I tremble for my orchard,” observed Mrs. Munson. 

“And I, for my poor flowers,” said Eva. 

“And I, for the wheat” added the saucy Dora, look- 
ing grave and troubled as either. 

“ ‘In thunder, lightning, and in rain, 

When shall we all meet again ?’ ” 

said Joe, addressing himself to the little circle around 
the centre-table. “Miss Phemy, it is just the night for 
ghost-stories; come, let us have the one you give with 
such effect : the unfortunate groom, you know, who died 
the wedding-night, and, cruel wretch, haunted the poor 
bride to death.” 

As usual, Miss Phemy averred she was no hand at 
telling a story, (though all present, hut Violet, knew she 
prided herself particularly upon this talent,) and, with 
equal sincerity, denied her belief in ghosts, — it was silly 
and vulgar, — though upon such occasions she always 
spoke low, started at every noise, and was constantly 
glancing toward the dark corners of the room. When 
at last prevailed upon to commence the recital, crediting 
it or not, Miss Skimpton gave the tale as if she believed 
every word of it, and had been present on the occasion, 
and consequently produced the most flattering alarm in 
her hearers. Debby listened at the parlor door until 
she was sure something touched her, and, with a 
little shriek, afraid to look behind, ran hack to the 
kitchen and retailed the hobgoblins with such thrilling 
effect that, when the terrier (stretched out before the 


176 


VIOLET. 


fire) barked in its sleep, Rose and Clemence, who had 
not exchanged a word for a week, rushed screaming into 
each other’s arms. Clemence despised the Irish, and 
Rose and Debby ridiculed her gibberish, and pronounced 
the Frenchwoman a consequential old fool. 

In the parlor, horror followed horror; and Joe, in 
order to increase the interest, gave his bogles a location 
and a name, dates, and other life-like touches; and, at 
last, they all became so nervous, that Mrs. Munson in- 
sisted upon their changing the subject ; when, as is com- 
mon upon such occasions, everybody got sleepy and 
afraid to go to bed. 

Prayers over, Mrs. Munson, Miss Skimpton, and Joe 
retired. The girls soon followed, and were bidding good- 
night at Violet’s door, when Debby rushed up to them 
in pretended alarm, declaring she had seen a ghost on 
the stairs. There, sure enough, it was, — an immensely 
tall-sheeted figure, its eyes fixed in a vacant stare, and 
the hands meekly folded on its breast. 

“What’s all this noise about?” asked Mrs. Munson, 
putting her uncapped head out of her chamber door. 

“What’s the matter?” echoed Miss Skimpton, com- 
ing to hers. 

Down jumped the ghost from the bench which served 
to eke out its unnatural height, and darting along the 
entry, whipping the spinster under its arm, carried 
her off. 

“Put me down! let me go!” shrieked Miss Phemy. 

But the ghost was as deaf as its winding sheet. 

“Stewed prunes,” whispered Dora, to the girls, screw- 
ing up her mouth in imitation of the spinster’s; “don’t 
she look as if she never said anything but stewed prunes 
all her life? Oh! mercy!” (and now Dora spoke loud 


VIOLET. 


177 


enough to be heard by every one,) “it’s going to carry 
Miss Phemy to the churchyard!” 

Joe was desperate in a practical joke; Miss Phemy 
knew it ; and, alarmed at this announcement, wriggling 
and squirming about in attempting to extricate herself, 
she executed most shocking faces. 

“Why don’t the old goosey-gander bite him?” whis- 
pered Dora, convulsed with laughter; “oh! the false 
teeth are out; but look, she’ll demolish poor Joe!” 
Twining her clawy hands in the ghost’s hair, the enraged 
spinster jerked out a handful. The ghost uttered a 
deep, sepulchral groan, but held its victim fast. 

“Joe, are you crazy ?” screamed Mrs. Munson ; “put 
down Phemy this instant.” The whole scene had been 
acted out in less time than it has taken to relate it. 

The ghost, with the struggling spinster in its arms, 
was now at her door, and, setting her on her feet, Joe 
opened it for her with the most ostentatious show of 
politeness. Bouncing in, Miss Phemy slammed it in his 
face — a second time Joe’s nose had come near being 
smashed that evening. Determining to postpone the 
scold she intended for him, until the next morning, Mrs. 
Munson returned to bed; and, laughing hysterically, 
Joe sat down on the stairs, and throwing off the wind- 
ing-sheet and dough mask, said, — 

“Girls, I do wish I had kissed her; I thought of it, 
but she is too bitter ugly; I gave her a pinch instead.” 

“Beware the ides of March, young man!” and Eva 
held up her finger at Joe. 

The ides won’t find me, Eva; I’m engaged to break- 
fast with Dora. Good-night to you, ladies ;” and, jump- 
ing up, he ran off, with the sheet trailing after him. 

The girls remained some time in Violet’s room, laugh- 
16 * 


1T8 


VIOLET. 


ing over Miss Phemy and her horrible grimaces; and 
when they were gone, Violet sat down to finish the “Lord 
of Creation;” deeply interested in the fate of poor 
Carry and the sensible, terse Miss Kendal, once or 
twice she fancied she heard steps in the entry, and lis- 
tened, but they ceased; then she was sure there were 
persons whispering near the door ; she got up and locked 
it. “Robare! robare! murder! Oh! monDieu! robare!” 
It was Clemence’s voice, and, forgetting her own fears in 
anxiety for Clemence, Violet ran to her assistance ; but, 
on reaching the room, instead of finding an assassin at 
the old woman’s throat, there stood Clemence and Debby 
(who had been bribed to sleep with her that night) just 
within the door, shrieking at the top of their voices at a 
man stretched off on a couple of chairs by the bed, his hat 
drawn down over his face, apparently sound asleep. 

“Don’t be frightened, Clemence; it’s only Joe!” 
Violet said, not a little provoked that he should torment 
poor Clemence as he did ; and, turning to Debby, asked 
“if she was not ashamed to make such a noise and dis- 
turb the family, when she knew it was Joe?” 

While she was speaking, roused by the cries, the dif- 
ferent members of the family, one after another, came 
running to the room, all with a secret hope it would 
prove a trick of Joe’s. Miss Phemy was so sure of it, 
that she said, loud enough for him to hear, — 

“That he was a fool, and deserved to have his ears 
boxed.” 

His mother, evidently of the same opinion, was about 
to award him his deserts, and approached the sleeper with 
a most threatening countenance, when who should walk 
in, putting on his coat, but Mr. Joe ! His entrance was 
hailed by a chorus of shrieks. 


VIOLET. 


179 


“What’s the matter?” asked Joe, glancing round at 
the array of night-gowns and caps; and looking ex- 
tremely provoked as his eye rested on the sleeper, — “ The 
devil! is the fellow drunk?” and with that, doubling his 
great bony fist, he dealt the sleeper a blow that sent 
him sprawling on the floor, and, the hat and mask falling 
off, betrayed Richard Roe alias Robert Doe, alias a 
veritable man of straw ! created expressly for the pur- 
pose of disturbing and frightening the household; not 
awaiting results , and laughing heartily, Mr. Joe by hasty 
strides made good his retreat, and, off to breakfast with 
Dora before his mother was up, dodged the scold. 

Had an Abbotsford ghost presumed upon the liberties 
which he of Elmwood took with the spinster, she would 
have resented it for life ; but when it became a question 
between dignity and visiting at Elmwood, Miss Skimp- 
ton decided it was a boyish affair, not worth noticing; 
and when shaking hands with his mother, on going home, 
assured her Joe had always been one of her greatest 
favorites, and would continue such ; she knew he did not 
mean anything by his little jests. 

It was very good-humored of Miss Phemy ; for, besides 
the ghost affair, she and her friend had had quite an 
altercation about the new minister, whom Mrs. Munson 
liked very much, and Miss Skimpton not at all. 

“He had,” Miss Skimpton asserted, “been very super- 
cilious in a conversation with Mrs. Carr, and talked and 
preached low church;” and she repeated her apprehen- 
sions of prayer meetings. 

“Singular that the bishop — or your bishop, as you 
call him, Phemy — should have made such an injudicious 
selection?” retorted Mrs. Munson. 

Miss Skimpton grew deathly pale, (she was one who 


180 


VIOLET. 


always turned white in her wrath,) and, looking very 
ghastly, hit her lip, but said no more on the subject. 

With Miss Phemy, the bishop possessed the royal pre- 
rogative of being always in the right ; it was enough to 
say to her such was the bishop, or any bishop s opinion, 
and it instantly became a law with Miss Skimpton. Her 
prayers were always from the prayer-book; how she 
managed, with her horror of extempore prayer, when in 
the dark or too ill to read, she never confessed, unless, 
perhaps, to the bishop. Some conjectured the prayers 
were omitted altogether; the more charitable, that she 
transgressed, for poor Miss Phemy had no memory ; and 
often said, it frightened her to death for a child to ask 
her to repeat the Lord’s prayer, or put a question to her 
in the multiplication table, she was so afraid of making 
a mistake. She w r ould rather never have heard a ser- 
mon, than listen to one from a minister without his robes ; 
and to enter any but an Episcopal church was, in Miss 
Phemy’s opinion, an unpardonable sin, and a wicked- 
ness, she declared, nothing on earth could tempt her to 
commit. Intimate with the bishop, and knowing him 
to be liberal, and pious, and learned, Miss Temple tried 
in vain to make Miss Skimpton understand she was 
doing him great injustice in citing him as she often did; 
but Miss Phemy insisted that the bishop, the House of 
Bishops, in fact, all the apostolic succession , thought 
precisely as she did; and, as Miss Mary knew nobody 
cared what Miss Phemy thought, she charitably allowed 
her to enjoy her opinion. 

By a course of reasoning and induction peculiar to 
young people, Joe and Eva proved, most satisfactorily 
to Yiolet, that, although it was contrary to the laws of 
etiquette, under existing circumstances, to visit in town, 


VIOLET. 


181 


yet crape and bombazine were no barriers to dinners 
and teas in the country. Their neighbors were just 
like their own family, and so Violet accepted invita- 
tions and passed her time much more pleasantly than 
she could possibly have done shut up at home in 
the city. The girls frequently walked over to Linden 
Hill, and there was a pretty short cut through the 
woods yet unexplored, which Eva wished to show 
her cousin; accordingly, as soon as the ground was 
dry enough, after the storm, they set forth. Eva, with a 
small basket over her arm, making a great mystery of 
its contents, and shaking her head to all Violet’s guesses, 
tripped along with the free step of a country lassie; 
but poor Violet, embarrassed by her long skirts and 
French boots, picked her way cautiously among stones 
and ruts, looking (which was indeed the case) as if a 
walk afforded her little gratification. 

“What a nice cool breeze, Violet!” remarked Eva; 
“ see those beautiful fleecy clouds, sailing along the blue 
sky; and hark to those sweet notes! How lovely the 
country is this morning; the smell of the earth and 
green leaves is perfectly delicious!” 

“I prefer the dust and pavements of dear Philadel- 
phia,” sighed Violet; “how I long to have you with me 
there, Eva !” 

Eva sighed too, as she replied, “My habits and tastes 
are all rustic, dear; I love the country;” and, occupied 
each with their own thoughts, they walked on again in 
silence. 

How characteristic! thankful for common blessings, 
Eva every now and then stopped to gather the sweet 
wild-flowers springing in her path ; while Violet crushed 
them under foot. Her thoughts were of Philadelphia, 


182 


VIOLET. 


of Willie, of his smile — that beautiful smile, perhaps, 
beaming fondly on another — and the voice which always 
set her heart fluttering, — might it not even now be whis- 
pering honeyed flatteries to some other girl? Why 
should she care? She would not accept him after his 
heartless conduct, was he ever so devoted. Yes, she did 
care for him ! She could not disguise from herself the 
humiliating fact — she loved Willie , though she despised 
herself for it. 

But their feet were no longer imbedded in soft turf 
and dry leaves, green houghs waving overhead; they 
had passed from dream-land, and, out of the woods, were 
on the broad road between two high red sandhills, the 
mica in the coarse gravel gleaming here and there like 
diamonds in the sun. 

“Violet,” said Eva, stooping down and gathering 
some, “am I not a miracle of generosity, poor as I am, 
darling, to present you with a handful of diamonds ?” 

Eva spoke playfully; but Violet said, gravely, — 

“Thank you !” and slipped them in her pocket. 

“Why, Violet! what are you thinking of?” asked 
Eva, amused at her pre-occupation. 

“I shall keep them, Eva,” replied Violet, sorrowfully, 
“and look at them when I am far away; and perhaps,” 
(and her voice faltered,) “perhaps the day may come 
when I shall cry over them.” 

She was thinking of Willie’s treachery, and for the 
first time it occuri^d to Violet that Eva, too, might 
cease to love her. Of late, she had become subject to 
spells of despondency ; and concluding she was in one of 
her low-spirited moods, Eva answered, playfully, — 

“Oh! they are not sentimental enough to cry over; 
throw them away, and take these flowers for your tears.” 


VIOLET. 


183 


“Thank you! I will take both; these will not be the 
first flowers I have treasured up, Eva! 

‘Touched by the hand of those we love, 

A scrap of paper, a pin, a glove, 

A pebble, become most dear.’ 

These will remind me of this walk, of many pleasant 
walks I have taken with you, darling, and the lessons 
so sweetly, so delicately given;” and before Eva could 
reply, Violet ran to the well, shaded by a noble horse- 
chestnut, and humming — 

“ The old oaken bucket, 

The iron-bound bucket,” — 

let down that swing to the end of a long pole, drew it 
up, took a sip, paused a moment to look at the hen and 
chickens hopping about in the grass and running in and 
out of the coop, — beautiful white bantams, Miss Mary’s 
pets, — and passing through a small wicket, Eva and Vio- 
let were on the lawn before the house. Here were no 
oddly-shaped beds and formal walks, as at Elmwood. 
Miss Mary cared not for rare flowers: she loved those 
that used to grow in her mother’s garden w’hen she was 
a child, and every variety of rose — verbena, heart’s- 
ease, carnations, deep red and variegated hyacinths, 
violets, jouquils, and geraniums — bloomed around the 
linden-trees scattered over the lawn, or shot up in circles 
in little spaces in the closely shavem*grass, as if Nature, 
not dear Miss Mary, had bid them live there. A rosy- 
cheeked child was busy weeding, singing to herself as she 
worked away. The sweet infant voice, the drowsy mur- 
mur of the bees settling upon the flowers, the low, con- 
tinuous rustling of the leaves, the mingling of melody 


184 


VIOLET. 


and perfume, the sweet, animated quietude, and exqui- 
site neatness of all around, was charming. 

“I think, Eva, had I never heard anything of Miss 
Mary, I should have guessed her out by her surround- 
ings,” remarked Violet, “as the Wallingford’s by theirs. 
At the Briery, the lawn is always littered with dead 
leaves and branches, the window-shutters flapping about 
with that desolate look which says, ‘ there lives no mis- 
tress here.’ I pity a man whose home lacks the air of 
domesticity, — what the Germans mean when they speak 
of a living room; such houses, whatever else they may 
boast, always depress me.” 

Miss Temple was busy making a frock for the little 
weeder; Keble’s Christian Year lay before her on the 
work-table ; she received the girls most cordially. Violet 
and Miss Mary had many friends in common, and while 
discussing them, and Violet giving Belle’s latest news 
from Philadelphia, Eva took up the book from the table, 
and, attracted by a pencil-marked paragraph, read, — 

“Well is it for us, our God should feel 
Alone our secret throbbings ; so our prayers 
May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend their zeal 
On cloud-born idols of this lower world ; 

For, if one heart in perfect sympathy 
Beat with another’s, giving love for love, 

Weak mortals, all enchanted on earth would lie, 

Nor listen for the purer strains on high.” 

Another place was marked by a violet between the 
leaves, and as such selections are a sort of index to the 
reader’s mind, we will give Miss Mary’s. It was headed, 
“If any man sin, he hath an advocate with the Father, 
Jesus Christ.” 


VIOLET. 


185 


“ That dearest of thy bosom friends, 

Into the wavering heart descends ; 

What ! fallen again ? yet cheerful rise ; 

Thine Intercessor never dies.” 

“Blessed assurance, Eva, is it not?” asked Miss Mary, 
glancing over the lines, as Eva laid the book on the 
table. 

Eva smiled her assent; they seldom disagreed upon 
any subject, more especially upon this. General con- 
versation followed. The girls fully appreciated Miss 
Mary’s company, and always stayed with her as long as 
possible. Eva was the first to rise ; Miss Mary play- 
fully upbraided her for it; Violet rebelled, declaring she 
would not go. 

“The truth is, cousin mine, for once I’ve plotted 
against you,” said Eva, smiling. 

Miss Mary glanced at the basket and guessed in 
what way; Violet had her suspicions also. 

“I will tell you all about it before we get home; that 
is, provided you say good-bye at once.” 

Generous in the extreme, and ever ready to aid with 
her purse, Violet’s notions of the poor, gathered from 
Dickens’ novels, were so revolting, and her horror of 
coming in contact with them so great, she never could 
be induced to accompany her cousin in her visits of 
charity. Their way, in returning home, lay through 
the fields. 

“What a pretty cottage!” remarked Violet, pointing 
to a neatly white-washed one, embowered in trees, the 
thin blue smoke slowly curling up above the tree-tops, 
melting away in the air. 

“It is Betty Green’s, the cripple who you have given 
17 


186 


VIOLET. 


me money for more than once. Suppose we stop and 
ask how she is?” 

“You designing, artful creature! that’s your plot, is 
it? and it is to bring her something in that basket, you 
have beguiled me into this circuitous path? Ain’t you 
ashamed of yourself? The outside of poverty is not 
so revolting as I imagined it; I believe I will take a 
peep at the interior;” and accordingly they bent their 
steps to Betty’s. 

At the spring they met Jemmie, the little boy of 
whom Mr. Dunbar had spoken in such high terms. He 
was stooping down, filling his bucket from a mossy 
spring. But as soon as he saw Eva, looking very happy, 
he ran to meet them. 

“Ma will be so glad to see you Miss,” he said; and 
glancing up at the stranger, blushed, and hung his head 
sheepishly. 

“How is your mother, Jemmie?” asked Eva, kindly. 

“Ma’s bin very bad, Miss, and I’ve bin sick, too.” 

“I thought so, Jemmie, by these sticks, and chips, 
and leaves lying about; you always keep things very 
nice when you are well; how forward your cabbages 
and beans are!” 

Running on before them, Jemmie opened the cottage 
door, with — “Here’s Miss Eva, Ma!” 

Warm as the weather was, they found poor Betty 
crouching over a few embers smouldering on the hearth. 
J emmie was indeed a good boy to his crippled mother : 
the floor was well scrubbed; the deal table white as 
snow; the plates and cups and saucers ranged in rows 
on the shelves in the buffet, in the nicest order ; the glass 
doors shiningly clean. 

“Don’t rise, Betty;” and Eva laid her hand on the 


VIOLET. 


187 


poor woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry to hear you have 
been sick.” 

“ Suffering worse nor * ever, Miss,” answered Betty, 
holding up her warped, twisted fingers; “but God knows * 
better than we.” 

“Well, Betty, at all events it is a blessed thing to he 
so resigned,” said Eva. 

“ Resigned , Miss Eva? that’s not the word for me, 
who has so much to he thankful for;” and Betty glanced 
around her miserable smoky shanty as if it had been a 
palace. “I bless God I’m so well off.” 

Violet thought of her luxurious home, and wondered 
it had never occurred to her to thank God for it. 

Oh, Miss, I didn’t ever think to see you agin,” con- 
tinued Betty; “I really believed I was going, I was so 
bad t’other night; but my time wasn’t come;” and Betty 
sighed. 

“Wasn’t you afraid?” asked Violet, surprised to hear 
her speak so cheerfully of dying. 

“Afeared to go to heaven, Miss?” asked Betty; “oh, 
no ! it’s that blessed hope that makes me able to bear 
my pain. Sweet hope! the king on his throne can’t 
buy it ; but the child of God, if he he’s a beggar like 
poor Lazarus, has it ‘without money and without price;’ ” 
and the sufferer’s face brightened as she spoke. Violet 
thought of her grandmother, and sighed deeply. 

Salutary are these visits to the poor man’s home, 
where facts preach sermons, disregarded from the pulpit. 
Eva and Jemmie were very busy transferring the con- 
tents of the basket to the little cupboard, and, by way 
of saying something, Violet asked Betty if she was not 
very lonely when Jemmie was away at work. 

“No, Miss,” she replied, cheerfully; “here’s my com- 


188 


VIOLET. 


panion;” and Betty laid her poor warped hand upon 
the Bible in her lap. 

Betty delighted very much in hearing Eva sing hymns, 
* particularly that commencing, “Be Still my Heart.” So 
little conversant was Violet with the Prayer-book, she 
did not know it contained such a hymn, or Betty’s other 
favorite, either, “ Sovereign Buler of the Skies.” When 
she came alone, Eva always read the Bible to Betty; 
but, fearing to tire her cousin, she only sang now, the 
cripple looking very happy, joining in occasionally. 

Good-bye, Betty!” she said, shaking hands kindly 
at parting. But Violet could not bring herself to touch 
the poor deformed hand. 

“Good-bye!” she said, nodding to Betty, and, as she 
passed out of the door, laying a gold piece on the table. 
Very thankful was Betty for the alms ; but Eva’s warm 
sympathy and friendly pressure of that poor hand was 
more to the sufferer than aught that gold could pur- 
chase. 

“How do you like Betty?” asked Eva, as they walked 
home. 

“I should be almost tempted to envy her, if she really 
has no fear of death,” answered Violet, thoughtfully. 

“ Mr. Eubank was with her the night she alluded to,” 
replied Eva, “and every one thought she was dying; she 
thought so herself ; and he told me he never saw such 
self-abnegation and entire trust in the Saviour.” 

“But, Eva, the presumptuous creature speaks as con- 
fidently of going to heaven as if she was a blessed 
martyr!” 

“ Suppose, Violet, you had incurred a debt you never 
could pay, and a rich friend were to pay it for you ; 
would it be presumptuous in you to believe that it was 


VIOLET. 


189 


paid? What would you think of one who, under such 
circumstances, instead of being penetrated with grati- 
tude, was always doubting the fact ? The sting of death 
is sin, and Christ having paid the penalty of sin, it is 
the Christian’s privilege to 4 fear the grave as little as 
his bed.’ ” 

44 Yet, dear, we see many good people shrink from 
death.” 

44 True, Violet; every one speaks to children of death 
as the greatest of evils, and soon they come to look upon 
it as such ; and in some constitutions the apprehension is 
so strong that even the love which casteth out fear can- 
not altogether banish it.” 

4 4 But, dear Eva, how can we tell when we have this 
love?” 

44 In other words,” replied Eva, 44 when we are con- 
verted. An excellent writer thus defines the change. 
‘Before conversion, the heart is sordid, selfish; after- 
wards, it begins to be enlarged with a benevolence which 
soon embraces the whole world in its comprehensive 
charity. Grood-will to man is the distinguishing charac- 
teristic of the renewed creature .’ ” 

44 After all, Eva,” persisted Violet, 44 1 can’t help 
thinking it presumption for a sinful creature to assume 
so positively they will go to heaven.” 

44 Violet, do you doubt that Moses, and King David, 
and Peter, the denier of his Lord, are in heaven?” 

44 1 don’t know, Eva; let us talk of something else; I’ll 
leave such discussions to you and the Rector;” and as 
she spoke, (strange how frequently these things happen!) 
who should ride up to them but the very gentleman in 
question, and, dismounting, passing his arm through the 
bridle, Eubank walked along with them; he frequently 
17 * 


190 


VIOLET. 


joined them in their rambles, and hospitable Mrs. Munson 
always insisted upon his remaining to whatever meal was 
pending. The young Rector had become quite domesti- 
cated in the family ; but he did not prove the charming 
beau Violet imagined him from his sermon. An intelli- 
gent, refined, gentlemanly person, he certainly was; but 
nothing of the beau : his manner was much more that of 
a calm, quiet, elder brother, anxious for their improve- 
ment, which delighted Eva, and made her feel more at 
ease with Eubank than with any other young man she 
had ever met. He was on his way to Elmwood when 
they met him, the bearer of an invitation from Miss Mary 
for the next evening. 

The bachelor had been for some time past engaged in 
writing a poem, which he had promised to read to the girls ; 
it was finished, and he kindly determined to make it a 
recreation for the neighborhood. The reading was to 
come off the next evening. Of course, everybody came. 
The young minister, Mrs. Munson’s family, Miss Skimp- 
ton, Dora, Joe, and Mr. Wallingford; (it was too damp 
for Mrs. Wallingford to venture out; the lady was not 
fond of poetry.) Somehow or other, though determined 
to behave well, the young people got into a very foolish 
humor at the tea-table, — an unfortunate state of mind 
for the critics of a poem ; even Eubank was so carried 
away by the contagion of laughing faces, he became 
quite afflicted with a cough; fortunately, however, they 
calmed down by the time tea was through. The ladies 
took out their work, the gentlemen closed in the circle ; 
and, having arranged the lights to his satisfaction, uncle 
Charley, helping himself to a pinch of snuff, began. 
His voice was pleasant; his enunciation distinct; the 
poem lost nothing in the reading; and, believing Violet 


VIOLET. 


191 


already deeply smitten, he fondly hoped this exhibition 
of talent would make her desperately, irrevocably in love 
with the writer. She was pretty; he liked her; intelli- 
gent, and a fortune ; hut a man possessing his advan- 
tages might get a wife at any time ; the women always 
took to him; he would win her first, and decide about 
marrying afterwards ; and uncle Charley read his very 
best. 

Dora and Joe, their chairs drawn a little behind the 
circle, amused themselves rolling up little pillets of pa- 
per and taking aim slily at the heads of the listeners. 

Although Mrs. Munson was afraid of nothing hut cats , 
she had no fancy for hugs, the pincher in particular ; and 
every time one of the little balls came against her head, 
starting and looking apprehensively round, she brushed 
her cap and shook her dress. She did not hear a word 
of the poem ; her thoughts were altogether of bugs ! 
The preface was humorous, or rather intended to he 
such. Heaven never intended Uncle Charley for a wit. 
Mrs. Munson’s was not a mirthful face. He did not 
mind her gravity; he heard Dora and Joe laughing. 
Violet and Mr. Wallingford were smiling; and, encour- 
aged, the poet read on with spirit. Violet sighed, poor 
thing ! girls in love always sigh : vain man, he was 
quite flattered by it. The scene changed : the lovers 
were in the depths of despair. Uncle Charley’s forte 
was reading with pathos. His intonations were most 
touching. Had he been dealing with sense, instead 
of sound, he might have created quite a sensation ; as 
it was, feeling very sleepy, Violet escaped from the 
poem into reveries of the past. Sighs now were well- 
timed. Miss Skimpton just remembered that she had 
no stockings darned for Sunday, which gave quite a 


192 


VIOLET. 


tragic cast to her cattish physiognomy. Seeing the 
candles flaring, Miss Mary, who had had her feel- 
ings lacerated very often while the poem was in pro- 
gress, rose softly and went to the window to let down 
the sash. Uncle Charles thought her the perfection 
of a sister ; he was himself a pattern brother ; but his 
brow grew dark, and, stopping abruptly, he fortified 
his amiability by a huge pinch of snuff, and sneezing 
away a portion of his irritability, cleared his throat, and 
giving a quick glance round at his auditors, resumed the 
reading. The glance was encouraging. Eva was think- 
ing of poor Betty Green ; Mr. Wallingford, rather tired, 
that Eliza must be very lonesome and wishing him at 
home; but Mrs. Munson! why does she bend so low 
over her basket — her hand now thrust into her pocket, 
then feeling behind her on the chair — is she seeking her 
pocket-handkerchief? A tear from her would, indeed, 
be a triumph! And so impressed was the poet with the 
awkwardness of weeping without a handkerchief, that 
when she put aside her dress and looked round her on 
the carpet, the triumphant author had serious thoughts 
of laying down his manuscript and assisting in the 
search. Wft'a and Joe were watching him, and Mr. Wal- 
lingford — a quiet, subdued quiz in his own way — also 
guessed the unreasonable hope. 

“ Eva, Eva!” and Mrs. Munson gave her a jog with 
her elbow, “have you got my spool of cotton?” 

Poor Uncle Charley ! the manuscript dropped from 
his hand ; a moment he stared at the speaker in blank 
amazement, and, crushing the poem in his hand, thrust 
it into his pocket. Stumbling over her father’s legs, — 
his feet were on the rounds of her chair, — slipping be- 
hind Uncle Charles, Dora raised her hands above the 


VIOLET. 


193 


poet’s head, the points of the fingers together, and, as 
if snufiing out a candle, as she brought them down on 
the bald spot, slowly, distinctly, emphatically pronounced 
the word u extinguished /” at which Joe exploded in an 
uproarious “he! he! he!” Dora shouted; everybody 
laughed, good-natured Uncle Charley as heartily as any. 

“You little rogue!” and, seizing her by the wrists, 
holding her fast, Uncle Cnarley revenged himself by a 
dozen kisses. 

After such an interruption, to proceed was impossible, 
though everybody urged it. Mr. Wallingford most so- 
lemnly and pathetically, his lips quivering and his voice 
quavering in the effort to restrain his laughter. Fortu- 
nately, Mrs. Munson’s carriage drove to the door at the 
moment, and reminding the girls that the horses would 
not stand, apprehensive lest Uncle Charley might relent 
and be induced to resume the poem, Mrs. Munson took 
leave without waiting to tie on her bonnet ; and, offering 
to set Miss Skimpton down at home, hustled off, escorted 
by Mr. Wallingford. 

“Father, dear, won’t you slip Fancy’s bridle over 
your arm and take him home for me?” asked Dora. 
“ I’m going to Elmwood with neighbor anJ, “uninvited, 
Dora sprang into the carriage. Everybody was in, the 
horses champing their bits and pawing the ground, and 
Violet, thinking they were going to dash off every mo- 
ment, executed a gamut of shrieks, with a running ac- 
companiment of “ Heavens ! 0 Tom ! mercy ! they’re 
off!” 

“ Joe !” screamed Mrs. Munson, in her shrillest tone. 

“ Joe !” echoed Mr. Wallingford, in his subdued, sick- 
room voice. 

But there Joe stood on the steps, talking and laughing 


194 


VIOLET. 


as unconcernedly with Uncle Charley as if his mother 
was not getting into a fury, Violet calling to him for 
mercy’s sake to come, or Miss Skimpton, squeaking 
Joe, every letter whistling through her badly-fitting false 
teeth, and muttering epithets in an under-tone she would 
as lieve neither Joe nor his mother heard. 

“ Home, Tom !” said Mrs. Munson, out of all patience. 

“ Joe, we’re going to leave you; going, going, gone!” 
shouted Dora, at the top of her voice, as they drove off. 

“By Jove, I’m disinherited /” and after them he 
dashed, at full speed ; but Mr. Joe and Tom were great 
friends ; the race was not long ; he soon overtook the 
carriage ; and, springing up behind, holding on by the 
tassels, called to Dora to know what the insiders were 
doing. 

“Abusing you,” screamed Dora; her head out of the 
window. 

“Home, Tom!” shouted Joe, ridiculously, like his 
mother. 

“Hold your tongue!” cried the mother; one would 
have thought the same person was speaking. 

“ Hold my tongue , my dear mother ! it’s as much as 
I can do to' hold myself on ; I vow, I’m shaken out of 
my boots. Hello ! Tom, there goes my hat !” 

Tom stopped ; Joe snatched up the hat, tossed to the 
ground with that expectation, and jumping on the box, 
letting down the glass in front, entered into conversa- 
tion as if nothing at all had happened. Arrived at Miss 
Skimpton’s lodgings, Joe handed the spinster out k la 
Sir Charles Grandison, and bowed her into the house. 

“Now,” he said, as he resumed his place by Tom, 
“ since w T e’ve got rid of Tabatha, we’ll discuss the poem;” 


VIOLET. 


195 


and he kept his mother scolding and the girls shouting 
the rest of the drive. 

“ Come in, Dora it’s; too late for you to go home,” 
said Mrs. Munson, as she stepped out of the carriage at 
her own door. 

“ Thank you, neighbor ! Joe and me arranged the 
programme before we went to Linden Hill;” and Dora 
walked up the steps as if she , and not Mrs. Munson, was 
the mistress of Elmwood. 

They found the household in great commotion, and 
Clemence in hysterics. It seems Joe that morning had 
shot an owl, and, intending to have some fun with it, 
stuffed the ugly thing, filled its eyes with phosphorus, 
and instructed his accomplices to suspend it over Cle- 
mence’s chamber door, so that it should pounce down 
upon her when she retired to bed; and it was to enjoy 
the scene that Dora volunteered to be their guest. But, 
notwithstanding the united efforts of Rose and Dehby to 
detain the Frenchwoman down stairs until after prayers, 
Clemence persisted in indulging in a short nap. The ca- 
tastrophe had just occurred. Dora and Joe arrived only 
in time for the hysterics. 

Weary, and anxious u to get prayers over” a phrase 
frequently used, but difficult to comprehend, Mrs. Mun- 
son rang for the domestics as soon as she entered the 
house. At the three rings, the signal for prayers, 
Dehby and Rose came in tittering, the corner of 
their aprons to their faces ; whereupon Mrs. Munson 
asked angrily if they had the toothache, which made 
them laugh outright, and set Joe and Dora off. Look- 
ing very fierce, seated before the stand with the lights, 
the great family Bible open before her, Mrs. Munson 
read the chapter. Praise was ignored altogether that 


196 


VIOLET. 


night ; to sing was out of the question when there was 
so much laughing ; and, the prayer read, Mrs. Munson 
retired to bed. She had had what the mistress of Elm- 
wood styled family devotions ; consequently discharged 
her duty, and her conscience was easy. Are there not 
other Mrs. Munsons besides the mistress of Elmwood ? 
none who, rushing in the effervescence of mirth or anger 
into the presence of Him before whom angels veil their 
faces, imagine because they hurry over a few set phrases 
that they have offered the acceptable sacrifice of prayer 
and praise ? 

The next was an eventful day at Elmwood. It brought 
a summons to Joe to return to college, and two telegraphic 
dispatches to Violet. The Seaton’s were going to Long 
Branch, and would take no denial ; she must accompany 
them ! The other was from Vane, stating he had made 
every arrangement for her doing so ; which latter excited 
Violet’s mirth, considering it an unnecessary flourish on 
the part of the executor. That she should have money 
whenever she wanted it, was, in her opinion, as fixed a 
law of nature as that the sun should rise and set. The 
trip to the Branch was a sudden thought, to be carried 
out on the instant. Violet must leave in the next morn- 
ing’s train ; and commissioning Dora to make her adieus 
to her mother and father, leaving Clemence to pack, Eva 
and Violet, before the sun got hot, went to Linden Hill to 
say good-bye to Miss Mary. The leave-taking over, in 
order to get home as soon as possible, and have the shade, 
Eva proposed their taking the short cut through the 
woods. Miss Mary knew of a still more direct path, but 
they would have to cross a sylvan bridge, videlicet, an 
old tree across the stream. Alarmed at the mere sugges- 
tion, Violet declined that on the spot; but Miss Mary 
assured her the most that could happen would be getting 


VIOLET. 


197 


her feet wet. Rather nervous at the idea, she con- 
sented, and, very sad at the thought of parting, the girls 
set off. 

Impolitic, as if the aim of her life was to make enemies, 
with a brighter face than she had worn since coming to 
Elmwood, Clemence rushed to the kitchen with the good 
news , which announcement Debby had already made, 
and almost in the same words, for Debby and Rose 
were as tired of the old Frenchwoman as she of them; 
and in the excess of her joy, Clemence indulged in such 
ecstasies of delight, that, incensed beyond measure, and 
addicted to long words, Rose, giving her to understand 
it was her “ magnanimous opinion she was the most 
ungratefullest of her sek,” revenged her slighted hospi- 
tality by shaking the coffee-pot, when pouring out for old 
Frenchy, as she called Clemence, and helping her to 
cakes as cold as her Welcome henceforth in the kitchen. 

Dreading all the while that fallen tree, when they got 
to it Violet declared to cross the stream, swollen as it 
was by the last night’s rain, quite impossible ; her head 
would swim ; she’d get giddy and fall in ; she was sure 
she would. Laughing, Eva tripped over and back again 
to reassure her; offered to walk before and hold her 
hand ; and her hand clasped in her cousin’s, the other 
holding up her skirts, one foot on the tree and one on 
the ground, Violet stood the personification of beautiful 
irresolution. 

“ Here’s Mr. Dobson coming this way ; if he over- 
takes us we shall have the pleasure of his company 
home !” cried Eva, glancing behind her. 

Grasping a branch of the tree overhanging the stream, 
with a skip, a little scream, and a scramble, Violet , was 
over, and, walking very fast, they soon lost sight of 
18 


198 


VIOLET. 


Mr. Dobson ; but Eva was not familiar with this path ; 
the further they advanced, the wilder the country be- 
came. 

“Eva,” said Violet, “I am afraid this will prove a 
new edition of the Babes in the Wood. Are you sure 
you know the way ?” 

“ Stand here ; I’ll ascend that little hill and look 
round; we can’t be far from home.” 

She returned quite satisfied of their whereabouts, as 
she thought. 

“We are near the old quarry ; as soon as we get out 
of this thicket you will see it.” 

The quarry, dug out of the hill-side, had not been 
worked for years. The top, even with the path above, 
towered like a parapet high over their heads. 

“ Mercy ! we might be murdered, if a stone was 
thrown down upon us, and no one know it,” said Violet, 
looking up with a shudder. 

The side of the quarry, straight and smooth as a wall, 
was nearly covered with vines, here and there on the rock, 
distinctly visible, the course the powder had taken when 
tearing out the huge blocks of gray stone that lay scat- 
tered around. On one side a deep ravine, on the other 
a dark wood. 

“A gipsy tent, or a few brigands, and what a picture 
it would make!” said Eva. 

“Yes! but so lonely, I’m afraid;” Violet was think- 
ing of newspaper murders. 

“Oh! nothing can harm us, dear; let us rest here 
awhile, and tell me something about Long Branch. Is it 
true that people walk into the sea?” and, clambering up 
on a huge block of red granite, their arms twined around 
each other, their feet resting on a smaller, they seated 


VIOLET. 


199 


themselves under the cool shade of a giant oak; and 
Eva continued, — 

“Do the great waves really dash over you? I cannot 
imagine such a coward performing so alarming a feat.” 

“You forget I was taken in in my babyhood.” 

“It must be a fearful sight!” and Eva shuddered. 

“ On the contrary, extremely amusing ; conceive, dear, 
parties of women and children, attended by maids and 
nurses, walking down and entering the bathing-houses, — 
a collection of sentry-box shanties nestled under a hill, 
some thirty — indeed, I forget how many feet high, — and 
a few minutes after, rushing out a set of the most fan- 
tastic harlequins ever beheld; their woollen togas and 
straw flats bedizened with stripes, bows, and cockades 
of every color of the rainbow; and, as if bent upon self- 
destruction, rushing down to the sea-side and running 
out to meet the advancing wave, which, foaming over 
them, they are lost to sight! Shouts of laughter, the 
wailing of babies, and cries of the timid; there a face, 
and here an india-rubber shoe, as the case may be, bob- 
bing up to the surface and swallowed again by the suc- 
ceeding breaker.” 

At another time, Eva would have been amused at the 
droll description; but her smile was faint, her eyes full 
of tears, as she remarked, — 

“This is our last walk!” 

“What a sad, sad word is last! Well may Mrs. 
Hemans call it the ‘sister of the past.’ ” 

“Oh! Violet, how very lonely I shall be when you 
are gone! Yet I do not wish you had never come: 
it will be sweet to think of you — to pray for you. Vio- 
let, dear Violet, will you make me one promise? I shall 
ask but one.” 


200 


VIOLET. 


“ What is it, darling ? I’ll do anything for my little 
Eva ; and Violet’s eyes filled too, as she drew her cousin 
to her and kissed her affectionately.” 

“Promise me, Violet,” whispered Eva, with a low sob, 
“that you will study the little Bible I gave you, and try 
to make it the rule of your life. The ‘flower fadeth, 
the grass withereth;’ like them, the fairest pass away — 
death comes often when least expected.” 

“I will, I will!” said Violet, bursting into tears; 
“since I have known you and Miss Mary, Eva, religion 
seems to me something very different from what I sup- 
posed it. I wish I was as good as you, my little 
cousin;” but, stopping abruptly, “hush!” she whis- 
pered; “don’t you hear foosteps up there?” and she 
pointed to the bushes on the side of the path over their 
heads. 

“I hear nothing but the wind in the pines; Nature’s 
sweet, solemn music,” replied Eva. 

“I’m sure some one’s there,” said Violet, very much 
excited; “see! there are eyes peeping at us through the 
bushes;” and she shrieked, as a stone came rolling down, 
and Dora and Joe rushing from their hiding-place, laugh- 
ing heartily at the fright they had given them, sprang 
on their ponies and galloped off. 


VIOLET. 


201 


CHAPTER VHL 

Violet and Joe are gone! Mrs. Munson and Eva 
in the porch, looking after the carriage as it rolls down 
the avenue, turns into the woods, and is hid by the in- 
tervening trees. Running up stairs and leaning from 
a window in Violet’s room, almost blinded by tears, 
Eva watches for it on the road to Abbotsford, where 
they take the cars. There it is! the sun flashing on 
the tires, rubbed bright by the coarse gravel; the dark 
speck grow T s less and less ; she can see it no longer. Sit- 
ting down, Eva has a good cry ; wipes her eyes and in- 
tends to be quite rational, and go to work about some- 
thing at once ; but the terrier at the wood-pile is howling 
dismally, the telegraph dispatches lying on the floor, 
empty, half-open drawers, everything looking so desolate 
and lonely, she has not the heart to begin. That Violet 
was ever there, seems a dream; a dream, however, Eva 
would never forget ; an epoch it was in her young heart, 
introducing new hopes, new anxieties to brighten or 
cloud her hitherto tranquil existence. They had begun 
already ; would Violet write to her as she had promised? 
or, engrossed by the brilliant circle she had so often 
described, cease to think of the little rustic who loved her 
so much ? 

“The moon looks on many brooks,” sighed Eva; 
“ the brook sees but one moon ! Poor me ! ’tis but to feel 
that one most dear grows needful to my heart, and lo ! 

18 * 


202 


VIOLET. 


a voice is whispering near, — 4 imperious, ye must part;’ ” 
and, notwithstanding the determination to be so rational, 
she had another hearty crying spell. 

It was a lovely day ; the sunshine quivering and flash- 
ing on the river, birds singing, and the cricket rejoicing 
in its short life, sending forth its shrill, quick chirp; 
but Eva’s heart was not attuned to theirs: their joy and 
that bright sunshine made her more sorrowful; the 
lowing of the cattle and the bleating of the sheep she 
liked better, for she fancied they had in them a touch 
of melancholy, though she had never noticed it before ; 
and full of these thoughts, she was standing gazing list- 
lessly out of the window, when Mrs. Munson, prepared 
for a stroll, came in and proposed a visit to Miss Mary. 
It was a melancholy, silent walk ; they took the short- 
cut through the woods, and Eva’s heart full of Violet 
and the conversation they had had there, the spurious 
diamonds, and the value her sweet cousin set upon them. 

Uncle Charley at the parlor window, saw them ap- 
proaching, and came*out to meet them. 

“ You have anticipated us,” said the bachelor, holding 
open the wicket for them to pass through; evidently 
running over with news of some sort. 

Affecting to admire Violet, as he did, Eva was angry 
with him for looking so smiling. Mrs. Munson re- 
marked his manner, but took no notice of the demon- 
stration ; it was always a satisfaction to her to be dis- 
agreeable and contrary when she was out of spirits, and, 
never glancing at his offered arm, walked up the steps 
without replying. Miss Mary came to the door looking 
pleased and mysterious as her brother, and, as she shook 
hands, said, — 


VIOLET. 


203 


“We were just coming to Elmwood to ask a favor of 
you, Mrs. Munson.” 

To this Mrs. Munson said nothing, until they got into 
the parlor, when she muttered, — 

“It’s one thing to ask , and another to get,” 

Whereupon Uncle Charley, a regular marplot, began 
to beg her to promise she’d grant it, whatever it might 
be — an imprudence of which no strong-minded woman 
was ever guilty. Miss Mary signed to him to be quiet ; 
but Uncle Charley never understood signs. “ Say you 
will, Mrs. Munson.” Mrs. Munson’s brow grew black; 
the lady, sulky as was her wont, when annoyed. 

“ To the point at once,” she said, addressing herself 
to Miss Mary; “what is it you wish of me?” 

“ Excellent neighbor,” began Uncle Charley. The 
excellent neighbor most unceremoniously turned her 
back upon him ; and Miss Mary embraced the oppor- 
tunity to tread on his foot. “ By Jupiter! Mary, it’s 
no joke for a woman of your s j^ Flo come down on a 
man’s corns !” and the bachelor ryWecl his foot. 

Mrs. Munson understood the little ruse , and smiled 
grimly. In as few words as possible, Miss Mary informed 
her of their intention of going for a few days to Capon 
Springs, and her wish that she and Eva should join the 
party. 

Her eyes on the carpet, silent a minute or two, sud- 
denly Mrs. Munson said with a snap, as if a spring- 
lock had closed, “I will.” 

The listeners were electrified ; they could not believe 
she was in earnest. 

“ When do you propose going ?” 

“ On Monday.” 


204 


VIOLET. 


“ Three days to prepare for a fashionable watering- 
place, and one of the three Sunday !” 

“ Oh ! we shall not require much preparation,” replied 
Miss Mary. 

“People must take me as they find me,” said Mrs. 
Munson, defiantly; “Eva, I suppose, will need rather 
more starch; hut Rose and Debby can get her ready.” 

“Mary, can’t you wait a day or two, for Mrs. Mun- 
son to get ready?” broke in Murad the Unlucky. 

“Ready!” echoed Mrs. Munson; “I am ready now , 
for that matter; I’d just as lieve go in what I’ve got on 
as not. You don’t suppose I’m such an idiot as to at- 
tempt to compete with stylish city fools in their gew- 
gaws and nonsense. Thank heaven ! I’ve no imperial 
to clip and fuss with;” and she glanced at Uncle 
Charley’s lower lip. 

Violet was welcomed most affectionately by the Sea- 
tons, Belle, the DjgjWo ev -£ n the undemonstrative papa ; 
above all, Harr^jjj^e. But the return to familiar 
scenes and faces renewed her grief; while at Elmwood, 
unable to realize that her grandmother was really dead, 
she often wondered and felt condemned, at her strange, 
unnatural apathy — though no one else did; for even 
there, there were times when she was almost overwhelmed 
by her affliction, and it required all Eva’s skill in sooth- 
ing to restore her to composure. A sad journey was 
that to the Branch, pursued at every step as poor Vio- 
let was, by vivid reminiscences of the past, — the boat to 
Camden, the Jersey wagons, with their broad tires, 
the familiar faces of the drivers. James, the polite 
darkey, came up to the stage, hat in hand, to inquire 
“Where Madam was?” (but, fortunately, Vane heard 


VIOLET. 


205 


the question, and stopped him before it was repeated.) 
There, too, were the over-worked old white horses her 
grandmother had commiserated so much she threatened 
to purchase and send to board in the country for the 
remainder of their natural lives. Miserable herself, 
Violet made Vane equally so, by crying all the way; a 
thousand times she wished herself back at Elmwood. 
At last the hotels, one after the other, appeared in sight ; 
the green bank, the bowers, the fresh, pure breeze 
blew in their faces, and the wide, wide sea lay before 
them glittering in a blaze of sunshine, the lazy waves 
rising, curling, and foaming, as they dashed on the 
smooth-washed sands, just as they used to when, a little 
child, she played on the beach making sand-waffles, or, 
followed close by Clemence, trudged to Howland’s, her 
wooden waffle-iron in one hand and swinging her little 
bucket of stones in the other. Heavier than ever came 
back the weight on her heart, more distressing the 
oppression at her chest, the choking* sensation in her 
throat; and, unable longer to coffbrm her feelings, she 
leaned back in the carriage and wept bitterly. She 
refused to go down to meals; would not bathe; though 
sometimes, after dark, was persuaded to a short walk 
on the beach. Hoping to go to Newport, Mrs. Seaton 
had not written for rooms at Howland’s, where she al- 
ways stayed; there were none to be had; Connover was 
crowded, so they had to go to Green’s, where they found 
only a few slight acquaintances. Indisposed for society, 
Violet was very glad of it, particularly when she heard 
that Carry Simmons and Willie Ashton were at How- 
land’s. Report said Willie was very attentive to Carry, 
the ill-natured ; that she was devoted to him , and he sub- 
mitted to her attentions. 


206 


VIOLET. 


Often, while at Elmwood, had Violet wished herself 
hack among her friends in Philadelphia; and thinking 
only of the pleasant days passed there, she was delighted 
at the proposed trip to the Branch. 


“ Ah ! who shall look into the dim future, 
And, as the shadowy vision of events 
Develope on his gaze ’mid the dim throng, 
Dare with oracular mien to point and say — 
This shall bring happiness ?” 


“ Death! relentless death! My dead! My dead?” 
frantically demands the mourner, w T ho knows not God; 
and the grim tyrant, frowning, points him to the grave, 
corruption, worms! “Death! oh death! My dead?” 
cries the Christian ; and Death the Angel, looking up- 
ward to the skies, bids him hearken to the golden harps 
of the angelic choir chanting — “Glory and honor be 
unto the Lamb forever /” “Hallelujah! the Lord God 
Omnipotent reign$£h.” 

* * *▼* * * * * 

It is Monday morning ; Miss Skimpton and the young 
Hector are at the station, waiting to see the party for 
Capon off. Uncle Charley, with his hand full of checks, 
and the ladies, and the ladies’ maid, Debby, carpet- 
bags, cloaks, and umbrellas, on the shady side of the 
car; Eva, her head out of the window, talking to 
Eubank, who stands dangerously near, looking very dis- 
consolate; Miss Phemy at the door of the station-house, 
her veil up, and pocket-handkerchief ready to wave 
adieu. A loud, shrill-shrieking whistle, and the train of 
cars rumble out from under the long shed and fly along 
the track. They are off! 

Dining at Winchester, they took the stage to the 


VIOLET. 


207 


Springs. The clumsy vehicle crowded as usual ; Mrs. 
Munson, Miss Mary, and Eva packed on the back 
seat. Very comfortable Miss Mary was, with Mrs. Mun- 
son’s switchy person on one side of her and the sylph- 
like Eva on the other, forming a steadying wedge to keep 
the three compact! On the middle seat Uncle Charley, 
a slim six-footer with a solemn face and green specta- 
cles, and a jolly human mountain, the mass of shaking 
flesh encroaching upon the slim man’s seat and Mrs. 
Munson’s lap ! Debby and a couple of colored waiters 
(on their way to fulfill their engagement at the Springs) 
occupied the front ; and the angry disgusted glances she 
launched at the darkeys amused the fat man so much 
that he laughed heartily, shaking his fat sides, his whole 
body, and poor Mrs. Munson’s also. The road was 
rough, full of loose stones and ruts, and whenever the 
wheels of the lumbering machine passed over Ijie one or 
sank deep into the other, the passengers, tightly packed 
as they were, were sent flying en masse to the top of the 
stage, the rebound bringing the fat man with crushing 
weight down on Mrs. Munson’s knees. The volumi- 
nous creature, facetious as fat , spite of themselves, kept 
everybody laughing ; but Mrs. Munson, fidgeting about 
and moving her feet as well as she could, the victimized 
resented the outbursts of merriment as personal affronts, 
looking daggers at the broad back and muttering pun- 
gent remarks about over-fed persons, men in particu- 
lar, who made themselves comfortable at other people’s 
expense, and did not care a snap who they incom- 
moded. But the fat man laughed on, the road 
rough as ever; and, exasperated beyond endurance, 
bethinking her of her pin-cushion, Mrs. Munson took 
it from her pocket, and, selecting the largest pin, with 


208 


VIOLET. 


difficulty straightening the limb so as to affect her pur- 
pose, stuck it in her dress on the point of her knee; but it 
only set the fat man wriggling worse than ever, and, glad 
to remove it, she tossed it out in the road, wishing from 
her heart it had been the fat man and he had fallen on 
that sharp stone. It was very savage of her, but any 
one who has been similarly situated will sympathize. 

When the stage stopped at the w r ay-side tavern to 
water the horses, the masculines got out, and as soon as 
the fat man was gone Mrs. Munson began abusing him 
ferociously. 

“Hush, aunt, there he is!” said Eva; and sure 
enough, with a smile that made his face look still wider, 
coming to the side of the stage, — 

“Will any of you ladies have some water?” he asked 
blandly, presenting a tumbler. 

Miss Mary and Eva fearing it might not be clean, 
thanked him, but declined. Debby shook her head; she 
would not drink because the ladies had not. 

“Will you, Mam?” and he held it up to Mrs. Munson. 

Looking scorpions at him, she turned away her head. 

“All ready?” bawled the driver, jumping on the box 
and gathering up the reins ; and, setting the tumbler on 
the steps, the fat man clambered in and took his place. 

It was dark when the driver, whipping up the horses 
that had been allowed to crawl along all day at a snail’s 
pace, descended the steep hill overlooking the settle- 
ment at break-neck speed ; it was the hindmost of three, 
and, as the others got down without a smash, Eva, though 
she held her breath, did not scream. 

“What building is that?” questioned Mrs. Munson, 
as they passed a long, low shed, a table running its 
entire length, and lighted by lanterns suspended from 


VIOLET. 


209 


the roof, in which were men walking up and down, smok- 
ing, and others at the table reading. 

“That’s the Pavilion, Mam,” responded the fat man. 

The question was not addressed to any one in par- 
ticular; the driver, Uncle Charley, the darkeys — any- 
body but the odious fat man. 

“A nice place for smoking,” remarked Uncle Charley. 

“ G-rand building!” muttered Mrs. Munson. “My 
cows live in a pavilion;” which set the fat man off 
again, and Mrs. Munson’s knees kept time to the choak- 
ing he ! he ! he ! 

But they had arrived at their destination. The stage 
stopped ; a man rushed up with a lantern, and opened 
the door ; the lean man leaped , the fat man rolled out. 
Uncle Charley, Miss Mary and Eva followed ; but weary, 
cramped, and benumbed, Mrs. Munson could with diffi- 
culty rise ; and had not Miss Mary and Uncle Charley 
lent her an arm, would not have been able to make her 
way through the crowd. 

Situated in a mountain gorge, the hotel, with its pil- 
lared front, was an imposing building. Lights flashed 
from a hundred windows; the band was playing in the 
ball-room; the hum of six hundred voices, — the arrival 
of the stage is the event of the day, and the whole popu- 
lation, men, women and children, always rush out to wit- 
ness it, — porters flying round with trunks, tossing them 
one on the other in a pile in the piazza, as if determined 
to smash every breakable article they might contain, 
bewildered Eva. She felt as if she was in a dream, 
while she made her way with the rest of the party to the 
reception-room. Mrs. Munson, dusty and tired, savage 
from the imposition of the fat man, and rendered still 
more furious by the scrutiny of the well-dressed crowd 
19 


210 


VIOLET. 


and remarks by no means flattering to her vanity, which, 
though whispered, were quite audible to her quick ears, 
extremely incensed, looked defiantly at everybody. Uncle 
Charley left them to go in quest of rooms, and returned 
with the unwelcome news that the only ones to he ob- 
tained were . at the top of the house. Provoked at being 
roosted on the roof, in a room which she declared was 
not as large as her china closet at home, Mrs. Munson 
mentally lavished ugly epithets on herself for coming; 
Uncle Charley and his sister for having incited to it; 
and the proprietor, as she ascended the never-ending 
stair-case. Supper was over, but Uncle Charley sent 
them the best refreshments he could procure. Mrs. 
Munson had placed herself on the side of one of the two 
very narrow, very hard beds. If there was anything 
she abhorred, it was wooden-seated chairs. Rising as 
the man set the tray on the only table in the room, she 
went to it, and contemptuously turning over the slices of 
cold mutton with a fork, nosed the butter, and declaring 
it horrible, the bread sour, and the tea not fit to drink, 
ordered him to take it away. But Eva, very hungry, 
begged for a little supper. 

“ This is pleasure! people can’t be satisfied to re- 
main in their comfortable homes, but must run round the 
world seeking pleasure!” muttered Mrs. Munson, re- 
suming her seat on the bed, the scarlet spots on her 
cheeks growing redder and redder, with a disgusted 
countenance eyeing Eva, as if she was disgracing her- 
self for life by every mouthful she swallowed. “ Go to 
the bar, Debby, and tell the proprietor to come to me. 
I shall leave to-morrow if he does not give us space to 
move in.” 

“I don’t know where the bar is.” The girl’s tone 


VIOLET. 


211 


was not one she would have ventured to use at Elm- 
wood. 

“Havn’t you an English tongue in your head? such 
English as it is, ask everybody you meet;” and, angry 
as her mistress, Debby set off on an exploring expedi- 
tion through the labyrinth of entries. 

Meanwhile, taking off her duster and bonnet, and 
hanging them upon the pegs in the Avail, — intended to 
supply the deficiency of wardrobes, — Eva dreAV a chair 
to the Avindow, and amused herself by looking at the tall 
mountains, and between the mountains, above their 
highest peaks, “ above the eagle’s flight,” the deep 
blue sky, and stars seeming in the clear atmosphere so 
unnaturally, so tremulously bright. The columns of the 
piazza, springing from a square base on the ground floor, 
rose to the roof the windoAV overlooked the piazza be- 
low, on which were girls and young men promenading, 
a line of smokers and spitters by the banisters con- 
versing as unconcernedly as if hoops and flounces Avere 
not cognizant of the trespass. Bathers (the lanterns 
borne by their attendants, gleaming through the trees) 
were passing to and from the bath-house, a long, Ioav 
building in front of the hotel, also boasting a pillared 
piazza; but, notwithstanding the novelty of the scene 
and the excitement of the day, mountains associated in 
Eva’s mind with Bible memories, soon recalled her 
thoughts to Ararat, to Pisga, to Olivet; and, after a 
feAV moments of sweet and solemn meditation, taking her 
Bible from her traveling sack, she snuffed the candle, 
and sat down to read; she was roused by hearing her 
aunt ask, in a tone of extreme impatience, — 

“Where on earth have you been all this time?” 


212 


VIOLET. 


“She lost her way, Mam;” and, looking up, encoun- 
tered the eye of the flippant colored chambermaid. 

Mrs. Munson’s dislike to colored people was as decided 
as her antipathy to cats. 

“I spoke to you , Debby!” the alarming scowl was di- 
rected to the smiling mulatto. “Where is the pro- 
prietor?” 

“He says he will come presently;” and Debby ended 
her sentence without the Mam , so much insisted upon 
by Mrs. Munson. 

The air of fashionable watering-places, however ad- 
vantageous to the health of the employers, is sadly 
deleterious to the politeness of servants. Darting a 
fierce look at her, and then at the colored girl, — 

“Our own servant will attend upon us!” Mrs. Mun- 
son’s tone was by no means calculated to make her re- 
gret the circumstance. 

“Ise come to sheet de bed,” answered the darkey. 

“I don’t care what you’ve. come for! begone! and 
don’t let me see your face again !” 

Tossing the armful of linen down on a chair, the girl 
bounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 
Never for a moment suspecting her order could be 
ignored, or that coming presently, in Capon parlance, was 
equivalent to not coming at all, more and more im- 
patient, and, if possible, more angry, Mrs. Munson 
awaited the interview, the spots on either cheek flame 
color. Debby had read in the newspaper, a few days 
before, of a case of spontaneous combustion , and, sleepy 
and tired as she was, took the precaution of getting as 
far off as practicable. Perched on the trunk in the cor- 
ner, her head resting against the wall, and her mouth 
open, she soon began to snore, every now and then mak- 


VIOLET. 


213 


ing a low bow. Mrs. Munson expected every moment 
to see her fall sprawling on the floor. She wished she 
would, and hurt herself, too : she deserved it for her im- 
pertinence ; and Eva, how unfeeling of her to amuse her- 
self looking out of the window, read her Bible, and go 
to bed so coolly, when she saw that she was so annoyed ! 
Yes, and eat the execrable supper, the proprietor had 
the assurance to send them, like a wolf, as if she was 
not accustomed to anything better at home ! 

The short inch of tallow-candle burned out; the light, 
suddenly flaring up, expired; but for the glimmer from 
the lamp through the fanlight over the door, the room 
would have been in Egyptian darkness. 

“Debby, Debby !” cried Mrs. Munson. 

“Mam!” yawned Debby, but half awake. 

“Get a light! don’t you hear?” and Mrs. Munson’s 
foot came down with emphasis upon the floor. 

“ Faith and troth, and where am I to git it?” asked 
Debby, gathering herself up lazily. “I tould the man 
that little bit was good as nothing, but he said if we 
wanted a whole candle, we must buy it at the bar.” 

“I was a fool to come to such a place!” growled Mrs. 
Munson, beginning to undress. Fortunately her night 
clothes were in the carpet-bag, and very glad was Debby 
when the amiable lady got into bed and she had per- 
mission to seek her own. Fatigued as she was, sleep 
fled Mrs. Munson’s pillow; she blamed the hard shuck 
mattress; she forgot, if she had ever read, that — 

“ Vainly Betty the pillow beats, 

And airs the blankets, and smoothes the sheets, 

And gives the mattress a shaking, 

If a ruffled head, and a rumpled heart, 

19 * 


214 


VIOLET. 


As well as the couch, want making ; and the occupant 

to his own sharp fancies a prey, 

Lies like a hedgehog, rolled up the wrong way, 

Tormenting himself with his prickles.” 

“ Were you fattened on this?” inquired Mrs. Munson 
of the portly negro who, in a snowy apron, stood by the 
aperture in the rock, from which the pelucid water was 
flowing, offering his dipper of brimming tumblers to the 
early risers who sought the spring. 

“Yes, Madam,” replied Uncle Ned, passing his hand 
over his protuberant corporation, with a fat, lazy smile; 
“I Ivas all hut a skileton when I come hare .” 

“Of what does it taste?” and Eva glanced apprehen- 
sively down into the tumbler in her hand. 

“Of mountain air and green leaves, to be sure; what 
else should it taste of?” observed Mrs. Munson, sarcasti- 
cally. 

The spring was near the Pavilion, where were several 
persons at the table reading; others walking about, 
engaged in conversation; and, with her contempt of 
starch and hoops, obsolete cap, and sharp, wide-awake 
look, Mrs. Munson attracted universal attention. 

The vis a vis of our party at the breakfast-table be- 
longed to the class the mistress of Elmwood informed 
Uncle Charley she had no idea of competing with, who 
eyed the country folk rather superciliously as they took 
their seats ; hut, excited by the merry conversation 
among themselves, they seemed soon to forget there was 
anybody else present. 

A very moderate eater at home, Mrs. Munson’s appe- 
tite, sharpened by the mountain air, was alarming ; broiled 
chicken, ham, eggs, and hot rolls disappeared with as- 
tonishing celerity. Occupied in appeasing the demands 


VIOLET. 


215 


of hunger, she did not observe those before her were the 
only eggs and chickens on the table. 

“I’ll trouble you for the cream,” she said, addressing 
herself to one of the gentlemen, who must have been 
deaf, for he went on buttering his muffin without raising 
his eyes. 

“Hand me the cream,” said Mrs. Munson, in a sharp 
tone, to the servant in livery behind the gentleman’s 
chair; the man was deaf as his master. 

“Give me that cream,” she repeated, angrily, to a 
waiter who happened to be passing at the moment. 

“The cream is private property, Mam.” 

“ Private property at a public table! pray what makes 
it such?” asked Mrs. Munson, in astonishment. 

“The gentleman paid for it extra,” replied the grin- 
ning waiter. 

Taking from her pocket a long, old-fashioned wallet 
purse, knit in shaded green silk, she gave the man a dol- 
lar ; and, darting a rabid glance across the table at the 
deaf gentleman, said, loud enough for the deaf to hear, — 

“Get me some private property ; I never drink milk 
in coffee.” 

In her haste to be off to the spring in the morning, 
Mrs. Munson left a number of things lying about her 
room, which, however, the door locked, and the key in 
her pocket, she considered safe against every contin- 
gency. But what was her amazement, on going up after 
breakfast, to find the door open, and the girl she had 
forbidden to enter it the night before fussing round, and, 
for aught she knew, taking an inventory of her valu- 
ables ! her trunk open, and all the money she had with 
her, in it. Extremely incensed, Mrs. Munson demanded 
what she was doing there. 


216 


VIOLET. 


“ Settling the chamber.” 

“And pray how did you get in?” 

“I has a master key;” and the girl seemed quite 
amused at her mystification. 

“And you may have this, too!” and, taking hers from 
her pocket, Mrs. Munson tossed it to her. Crushing 
the articles scattered around into her trunk, putting her 
money in her pocket, she went down to complain to Uncle 
Charley; but Uncle Charley could not be found. He 
had gone to the billiard room, with the express under- 
standing between himself and the servants that, should 
a cross old lady ask for him, they were not to know 
where he was; and in anything rather than a happy 
frame of mind, she acceded to Miss Mary’s proposition to 
accompany Eva and herself in a walk. The day dragged 
heavily away; but the longest must end. 

Tea over, the party from Elmwood, attracted to the 

music-room by the thrilling tones of Miss , a young 

lady of Baltimore, who, notwithstanding the temptation 
of a splendid soprano voice, had the good sense and 
good taste, instead of joining the thousands who murder 
Italian music, to strike out a style of her own, approach- 
ing very near the good old English ballad, — 

When piercing shrieks and cries of horror drew them 
into the piazza. Something dreadful had happened ! Peo- 
ple, white with terror, children, nurses, waiters, in their 
eagerness to ascertain the cause, running against and 
treading upon each other. An open carriage lay within a 
few feet of the door. The horses had broken away from 
it, and, with a part of the harness hanging about them, 
dashing at full speed into the woods. Mrs. Arlington, 
the bride, — the pretty, blooming young bride, Ida Darn- 
ley, — was dead ! They were bringing the body in ! 


VIOLET. 


217 


Darnley himself, a gash in his forehead, following, white 
as the corpse. It was very, very dreadful; and the 
heart of the great human mass seemed, in deep sympa- 
thy, to have stilled its throbbing. No one moved. Not 
a word was spoken, as they bore her up the steps and 
into the hotel ; but when they passed in, there arose a 
confused murmur of voices, and the question, repeated 
by a hundred tongues, “ How did it happen ?” Some 
said the horses had taken fright at a kite the children 
were flying before the door ; some that they had shied 
at an empty barrel on the roadside; others, that a part 
of the harness had given way. How it happened mat- 
tered little ; misery and death were the results. 

Beautiful was the sympathy testified by strangers, 
many of whom did not even know them by sight. There 
was no music, no dancing, that night ; no promenading 
in the long piazza ; no careless laugh broke the solemn 
stillness; persons conversed in undertones; children 
went about upon tiptoe ; the servants spoke in whispers. 
A deep, unnatural silence pervaded the dwelling of six 
hundred souls ! 

Mrs. Munson’s room adjoined the Darnley ’s ; nice, 
quiet persons, she esteemed herself fortunate in having 
such neighbors; but to-night most earnestly did she 
wish them anywhere else. Not that she believed in ap- 
paritions ; if she had, the strong-minded agreed per- 
fectly with Carlyle, that “ each carrying about within 
himself an embryo ghost, it w T as a folly to dread what 
sooner or latter he would himself be.” If there were 
such things as hobgoblins, she would like to see them ; 
but she was annoyed because young people were apt to 
be silly, and Eva might wake in the night and feel ner- 
vous at their proximity to the dead. “ A fellow-feeling 


218 


VIOLET. 


makes us wondrous kind,” thought the recipient of her 
distress, amused at the calmness of the niece and the 
nervousness of the strong-minded aunt. 

Notwithstanding her reiterated assertion that she 
would not submit to the imposition of buying her own 
candles while paying such high board and being fed upon 
such miserable fare, (Mrs. Munson had discovered that 
the liveried servant had scoured the country for miles 
around to obtain the fresh eggs and chickens with which 
she made so free at her first breakfast,) Debby was seen 
coming from the bar-room with two candles in her hand ; 
indeed, it was whispered Mrs. Munson had applied to the 
proprietor to change her room. Two candles were cer- 
tainly burning in the chamber ; and with unwonted con- 
sideration for Eva’s comfort, when Mrs. Munson got into 
bed, she told Debby to let them burn, as she was sure 
Eva felt afraid. And Eva, provokingly literal on the 
occasion, when going to bed, to prove her aunt was mis- 
taken, blew them out, and was soon fast asleep. 

Getting up very softly, Mrs. Munson felt about for the 
match-box, but she could not find it; so she drew up 
the window-shade to admit the moonlight. The watch- 
man, either asleep or overcome by fear of the dead, 
had absconded; the wind must have blown out the light 
in the entry: not a ray came through the fanlight over 
the door. Eva’s skirt on the chair looked as if it was 
moving; she thought she heard something close behind 
her, made a flying leap to bed, and covering up her head, 
listened, in a cold shiver, to every noise in the next room, 
startling and trembling at every sound. The footsteps 
in the entry ceased ; all was quiet as the grave in the 
chamber of death. A sudden storm, common in that 
mountainous region, was brewing ; thunder muttered in 


VIOLET. 


219 


the distance ; the wind howled ; and a cloud, every now 
and then obscuring the moon, left the room in profound 
darkness, — that darkness which seems to become palpable 
and oppresses with a feeling of suffocation. At the first 
clap of thunder, poor Mrs. Munson started up in bed, 
the dim, ghastly moombeams quivering on the floor, 
creeping closer and closer together, formed themselves 
into a coffin ! The chamber door, though locked, opened ! 
it was not fancy, as with a horrible fascination she gazed 
at it; the space grew wider and wider, and a sheeted 
figure glided in ! I say glided , for there was no sound 
of footfall, no rustling of drapery, though the winding- 
sheet trailed on the floor. Slowly it approached the 
bed ; nearer and nearer. Merciful heaven ! it was Ida 
Arlington ! The blue moonlight playing over her rigid 
features, her eyes fixed in a cold, stony gaze upon Mrs. 
Munson ! Should it speak to her ; should it touch her, 
she would die ! A cloud came over the moon ; she was 
in the dark with the dead bride ! 

A wild, unearthly shriek rang through the hotel, curd- 
ling the blood of those who heard it, and awoke the 
strong-minded ; a pillow over her face ; she was suffer- 
ing from nightmare ! But from that hour never was 
Mrs. Munson heard to ridicule ghostly terrors. The 
body was taken home the next day. 

The ball-room that night presented the usual scene 
of festivity. Every one seemed to forget that the next 
shaft of the fell-destroyer might be aimed at their own 
breasts. Mrs. Munson had had enough of Capon. For- 
tunately, seats were to be had in one of the stages ; and, 
leaving Miss Mary and her brother to enjoy the water, she 
returned home, — Debby, sick of the place as her mis- 
tress; and Eva compensated, for whatever amusement 


220 


VIOLET. 


she might have lost at Capon, by the delight the young 
minister testified at seeing her. Another happiness 
awaited her, — a letter from Violet. Hasty, sad, and 
incoherent, after an account of her melancholy journey, 
she added, — 

“Your father was right, dear Eva, in his estimate 
of earthly happiness. As poor grandmother once said 
to me, when speaking on the subject, ‘We all talk of 
happiness, but who has found it?’ Yes; she warned 
me that sorrow was the common lot, and I must not hope 
to escape. It is true, I have learned by sad experience 
that love, friendship — ay, happiness, is indeed a dream, 
with intervals of sad awakenings! Yet there are hearts 
that must dream ; and mine, I fear, is one. Were my life 
always so wretched, I would pray Heaven it should soon 
end. Believe not what others tell you. Listen not to 
your own heart. Love! Oh, Eva, never, never love! 
It is a desert mist, cheating the thirst its semblance 
kindles, — a poisoned wreath, fair and beautiful to look 
upon, maddening the infatuated one who is duped into 
wearing it. With such wreathes were the Christian mar- 
tyrs crowned: they suffered for their religion; I reap 
the reward of my folly. Simpleton ! I assisted to twine 
it, and smiled when it was placed upon my brow. 
Eva, I have grown old in a few days. The beautiful 
faith in mankind, the sweet truthfulness of girlhood, is 
gone from me forever. Stripped of its illusions, what 
will life be henceforth? Oh, Heaven! I shudder to 
think of the long, long, weary, aimless years before 
me.” 

Sorrowing over the dead and the living, a stranger to 
the only true source of consolation, poor Violet was in- 


VIOLET. 


221 


deed to be pitied. Her next letter, pretty much in the 
same strain, ended with, — 

“But I despise the world too much to care for it. 
Oh God ! it is false ! I do care for it, else why so 
very, very miserable ? Pity me, Eva ; pity your poor 
cousin.” 

And Eva did pity her most sincerely, though gathering 
only from these dark hints that poor Violet was very 
wretched. Violet herself could not comprehend why her 
position was so changed. The world knew, though she 
did not, that she was no longer an heiress. Eor some 
days after she got to the Branch, she confined herself to 
her chamber, and at last, though with extreme reluctance, 
yielding to the entreaties of her friends, came down to 
meals, though she never could be persuaded to remain 
in the parlor. One afternoon, having agreed to go with 
Belle to the bower after tea, while Belle lingered to 
speak to some one, with her rigolet and cloak over her 
arm, Violet seated herself at the parlor door. A couple 
of ladies, she had not remarked when she took the chair, 
were carrying on a whispered conversation behind it. 

“Ma ! ma !” cried a fantastically-dressed child, rushing 
past and throwing back the door rudely against her, 
“didn’t you say Willie Ashton, who’s engaged to Cousin 
Carry, wouldn’t marry that pale girl in black with the 
Seaton’s, because she’s poor?” 

“ Heavens, Gussy, what an unfortunate memory you 
have ! I shall really be afraid to speak before you.” 

“ Say, ma!” and by way of enforcing attention, Young 
America gave a jerk to ma’s black velvet streamers. 

“Go away!” and pushing him from her, the mother 
turned to her companion, and glancing at a person just 
entering the room, remarked, “Did you ever behold 
20 


222 


VIOLET. 


such a slinky ? The woman has but two skirts, and one 
of them is in the wash.” 

Vane and another gentleman were walking the piazza, 
smoking. “For Heaven’s sake, what is the matter, 
Violet?” he asked, as he hurried to her. 

Taking his offered arm, “ Let us go to the sand,” she 
said, in a hoarse, choking whisper. 

Shocked at her extreme agitation, he did not seek 
an explanation; Violet did not speak; only when Vane 
would have spread her shawl on the beach for her to rest, 
— “Not here,” she said; “some place where no one can 
hear what I have to say to you;” and when beyond the 
fear of intrusion, stopping all at once, and looking him 
full in the face , — u Am I poor , Harry?” she asked ab- 
ruptly; “don’t be afraid to tell me, I can bear anything 
now” 

She looked so wild, and spoke in so unnatural a voice, 
Vane shuddered, as he said, soothingly, “Not poor , dear 
Violet ; the estate is embarrassed ; all business matters 
are more or less so, at present ; but people will be able to 
pay their rents by-and-by ; and, in the meanwhile, you 
have more than you will be likely to spend. But why 
so singular a question?” The dreaded hour had arrived, 
some one had communicated his secret. 

Without touching upon the report of Willie’s engage- 
ment, in as few words as possible Violet related having 
overheard a conversation between two ladies, in which it 
was distinctly stated that she was poor. 

“Damn! — Excuse me, Violet; but such fools are 
enough to set a saint swearing.” 

“ Be frank with me, Harry, I implore you. I can go 
out as a governess; I’d just as lieve be a governess as 


VIOLET. 


223 


anything else ; nothing can render me more miserable 
than I am; tell me all — do, Harry, tell me the truth.” 

Vane assured her he had told her all, that there was 
nothing to tell ; and the lawyer fibbed with so honest a 
face, Violet believed him. The shawl spread on the 
sand, they seated themselves upon it. 

“I wish I had never come here,” sighed Violet. 

“From my soul I wish you had not,” replied Vane; 
“but we have taken seats for to-morrow;” and they 
were again silent. 

So well had the proud woman’s heart guarded her se- 
cret, Violet’s deep dejection and altered appearance were 
attributed by every one to her recent affliction. Vane’s 
manner to her was perfect; none but their most inti- 
mate friends suspected the feeling which dictated those 
delicate attentions, so quietly, so naturally offered, or 
question his right to bestow them. Reviving to the 
poor wounded heart as the evening dew to the drooping 
flower are those thousand nameless petites soins which 
show that we are tenderly cared for, which, though seem- 
ing not to notice, Violet fully appreciated. Long they 
sat in silence ; it is friends, sympathetic friends alone, who 
can hold such intercourse. Violet’s eyes were on the 
waves; Vane’s on her. A deep-smothered sigh made her 
start ; she had forgotten he was there. She looked up, 
and his fond, sorrowful glance, restored for a moment its 
wonted bloom to her cheeks. “ Oh ! that he was indeed 
my brother, dear, kind, good Harry, and I could throw 
myself upon his breast and weep the bitter tears that are 
choking me!” was the thought at poor Violet’s heart, as 
she turned from him to hide her tears. Vane heard her 
sigh, and in the quickly averted face read only sorrow 
for the dead; aversion toward himself. 


224 


VIOLET. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Are you ready, Violet?” asked Belle, equipped for 
the breakers. 

“All but to put on my wrapper;” and slipping it over 
her bathing-dress, Violet threw her veil over her coarse 
straw flat, and drawing her shawl around her, leaving 
Mrs. Seaton and Clemence to pack, arm in arm the girls 
sauntered down the wide walk leading to the bank. 

“Violet looks better to-day,” remarked the Doctor 
to Vane, as they stood on the bank, watching the girls 
descend the steep steps. 

“Pygmalion’s statue scarce warmed to life,” replied 
Vane, smothering a sigh; “a great mistake it was, bring- 
ing her here.” 

“Wait a bit, ’till I’m done with these ladies,” said 
the bather to Belle and Violet, as they passed him ; 
“there’s a terrible undertow; the sea is rough to-day.” 

But, brave bathers, becoming excited, regardless of 
the warning, and rather enjoying the strong breakers, 
further and further they waded out. 

“ Glorious ! is it not, Belle?” and, while she yet 
spoke, a huge wave, rolling in from the sea, broke over 
them and knocked them down. She, the first to regain 
her feet, looked round for Violet. 

“Violet! Violet!” Her piercing shrieks rose above 
the din of the angry sea. 

Vane and Theodore heard it on the bank, but so 
changed was Belle’s voice by terror, her own brother 


VIOLET. 


225 


did not recognize it. Some one was in peril, and they 
rushed to their assistance. Something at Yane’s heart 
told him it was Violet. The bather was bringing Belle 
out of the water; she had fainted. Throwing off his 
coat as he ran, and stopping only to disembarrass him- 
self of his boots, Yane plunged in and made for the 
dark speck floating out to sea. 

Heavens ! they’ll both be lost!” 

“ The man is mad! nothing can save her! he’s throw- 
ing away his life ! Do not, for mercy’s sake ! don’t at- 
tempt it!” 

But Yane heard them not; bravely he breasted the 
waves; the love at his heart lent the dauntless swim- 
mer superhuman strength. He’s up to her ; seizes her 
dress! A long, loud shout, proved the sympathy of 
those on shore. But they rejoice too soon. A tremen- 
dous wave; they are lost to sight! Yane rises alone! 
There! there she is, but a few yards off! Again he 
grasps her dress, and, twining his arm around her, turns 
and makes for the shore. In breathless anxiety the 
spectators await the result. He nears the beach; how 
lifelessly she hangs ! Theodore plunges in to his as- 
sistance! One, two, a dozen shawls are piled upon 
the sand; they lay her upon them. Is she dead? 
Yes! no! she must be! See how motionless she lies ! 
How deathly pale ! Look, look ! the limp-folds of her 
dress move! she breathes! The eyelids quiver; she 
opens her eyes and gazes wildly around her ; a sharp 
spasm convulses the beautiful face ! Good God ! she’s 
dying ! 

The first object that met that bewildered gaze as the 
quivering lids opened, was Willie Ashton talking uncon- 
cernedly to Carry Simmons, and smiling — smiling , when 
20 * 


22G 


VIOLET. 


strangers were in tears — and in that pang , which almost 
broke her heart, all love for Willie expired. 

Pride, womanly pride, lent her strength for the jour- 
ney ; under the excitement, she felt capable of anything ; 
and people wondered, when, cold and white as marble, 
they saw her enter the stage. Theodore was seriously 
uneasy; Vane miserable. By the time they reached 
home, she was in a high fever ; a long illness followed ; 
nervous at first, it became typhoid; and as Violet 
seemed to be sinking, Mrs. Munson and Eva were writ- 
ten for. Day and night Vane walked the library; 
Theodore was out attending to his patients ; but, hoping 
in the very face of despair, nearly distracted, impatient 
for, yet dreading the hour that brought Dr. Morgan, 
Vane never quitted the house. Mrs. Munson had un- 
fortunately (or rather most fortunately) sprained her 
ankle; Eubank came up with Eva; their engagement 
was announced ; and in the hope that the young clergy- 
man might be able to impart some consolation to the 
frantic lover, Mrs. Seaton insisted upon his remaining 
with them until the crisis was past. Under such cir- 
cumstances, people soon become intimate; the young 
men had many traits of character in common ; strangers 
could not help taking Allen Eubank on trust, there was 
something so truthful, so self-reliant about him ; his 
very presence was strengthening at such a time; sym- 
pathizing in the distress of others, he seemed to have 
courage for every emergency ; calm, quiet, and thought- 
ful, his face beamed with benevolence; his smile — “a 
smile that could not light a face of sin” — was in itself a 
benediction. Soon every one came to him for comfort; 
even Clemence turned not away from Eubank with her 
passionate “Mon Dieu ! how you know? you no doctar.” 


VIOLET. 


227 


Restless and miserable, the poor creature asked con- 
tinually, — “She get well, n’est pas?” making to all, 
when replied to in the negative, the same angry re- 
sponse, — “Mon Dieu! how you know? you no noting; 
you no doctar .” 

Handsome as the young minister was, while looking at 
him one thought not of his beauty, hut of the “ beauty of 
holiness .” Yet was there no ministerial assumption 
about Eubank ; not the shadow of austerity; his manner 
was that of any other dignified young man ; a little more 
thoughtful, perhaps, and kind, very kind. He was the 
first clergyman Yane ever really liked. Disgusted by 
the inconsistencies of Christians, he had almost come to 
the conclusion, as he confessed to Eubank, that religion 
was a grave lie. 

Expert as Dr. Morgan’s long and extensive practice 
rendered him in dodging questions, he found it impossi- 
ble to evade Yane. Slip down softly as he might, Yane 
heard him, and was at the foot of the stairs, looking so 
very miserable, the Doctor could not find it in his heart 
to destroy all hope. The evening of the critical day, 
however, the day so longed for, so trembled at, the 
Doctor’s only reply to Yane’s question — “ How is she?” 
was a sorrowful shake of the head. Staggering back 
into the library, Yane sank on a chair, and, covering his 
face with his hands, burst into tears, and cried like a 
child. Supposing all was over, Eubank was silent. 

“Pray for her ! Oh, pray God to spare her to us!” 
gasped Yane. 

“Then she is not dead?” 

“No, thank Heaven!” 

Yane could say no more. Together they kneeled; 
and, if ever fervent supplications ascended to the Mercy- 


228 


VIOLET. 


seat on high, they were those offered by the two young 
men that night ; and, as if in fulfillment of the promise, 
“Ask and ye shall receive,” while yet they prayed, 
Violet opened her eyes, and, for the first time for a 
week, recognizing Eva, said, in a low whisper, — “Eva, 
I’m dying!” 

According to Dr. Morgan’s prognostic, should she 
rouse from that long, death-like trance in her senses, the 
most favorable result might he anticipated. 

Too much affected to speak, Eva stood looking tear- 
fully at the poor sufferer, when the door opened and 
the Doctor entered. 

“Doctor, I’m dying!” 

The Doctor smiled, as he approached the bed, and 
felt her pulse. 

“Not yet awhile, my dear.” 

How his smile pained Violet, who really believed her- 
self to be dying. 

“You are worth a dozen dead girls, child; only keep 
quiet: don’t talk;” and, turning to Eva, “she must see 
no one; the fever has left her; that is the reason she 
feels so weak; but a little beef-tea and chicken-soup 
will soon set her on her feet again.” 

Eva waited for no more ; her bright face told the joy- 
ful news in the library the trembling lip in vain tried 
to give utterance to. 

The transition from despair was too much for Vane; 
an hysterical “Thank God!” and he fainted. 

Hitherto, his feelings had been masked under friend- 
ship; but, since Violet’s illness, in a perfect abandon 
of feeling, he cared not if all the world knew how 
devotedly he loved her. 

“Is it possible, Eubank, that it can be an answer to 


VIOLET. 


229 


our prayers?” he asked, as soon as Eva had left the 
room; u your prayer, I should say — for you are a good 
man.” 

“ You forget the Intercessor , Vane; it was in Christ’s 
all-prevailing name our prayer was made; it is Christ 
who presents and renders prayer acceptable.” 

“But, Eubank, might not the disease just then have 
taken a favorable turn ? or, perhaps, it may be the 
effect of remedies?” 

“Oh unbelieving and slow of heart, ‘were not nine 
healed, and but one returned to give glory to God!’ 
Vane, Vane! a good constitution, a skillful physician, 
something , everything , anything , rather than the bless- 
ings of God in answer to prayer ! — ay, though made in 
faith, and urged with tears. Unless we expect our 
prayers to be answered, what a mockery it is to pray 
at all !” 

“In truth, Eubank,” responded Vane, thoughtfully, 
“a man hardly knows what to think; the wildest and 
most contradictory creeds are alike drawn from the 
Bible, and convincing texts found in confirmation of 
them. Then, again, so few practice a tythe of what they 
preach. I find religious people as passionate, as unfor- 
giving, as much addicted to scandal as ” 

“Hold! my friend; is not grace ‘a treasure in 
earthen vessels?’ ‘In us there is no good thing; every 
good thought eometh from above.’ Should we set a 
candle in an alabaster vase, the brighter the light, the 
more perceptible becomes any imperfection or flaw in the 
vase.” 

“Ton my soul, there were so many flaws,” replied 
Vane, smiling — poor fellow, he could smile now — “that 
I began to think myself as good as any of the righteous.” 


230 


VIOLET. 


“We are expressly forbidden to measure ourselves 
by ourselves,” replied Eubank ; “ did you desire to draw 
a straight line, w r ould you choose a crooked stick for 
your ruler? In man’s weakness, is the grace of God 
perfected ; but it is only by beholding it in the perfec- 
tion of Christ, that we may hope to attain to any measure 
of it.” 

“ I wish I was a Christian,” sighed Vane. 

“You may wish to quit this house, my friend; but 
if it was on fire, and you sat there and made no effort 
to do so, you would perish in the flames. In vain may 
the cool fountain sparkle by the wayside, if the thirsty 
traveler stop not to drink of its refreshing water. He 
may think it delicious; may long for it, thirst for it, 
but nothing short of drinking will slake his thirst. Thus 
with religion : you may acknowledge that it is good and 
valuable ; you may wish for it, feel painfully your need 
of it; yet this will never make your soul partake of the 
blessing of salvation. No, no, Vane; you must actually 
receive Christ as your Saviour; you must submit and 
give yourself to Him, expecting to be saved only by his 
blood , his mercy , his power , his love; seeking his Holy 
Spirit in prayer, and striving in his strength to keep 
God’s commandments ; it must be the daily, hourly pur- 
pose of life, to bring every thought into captivity to 
Christ ; thus and thus only will the thirsty soul drink of 
6 the waters of life freely,’ and be refreshed and nourished 
into eternal life. Believe me, no respect for religion, no 
general desire after it, no wish, no longings for peace or 
heaven, will effect anything.” 

Vane had reflected deeply upon the subject since Vio- 
let’s illness. 

“ Dropping all metaphor, Eubank,” he said, “what is 


VIOLET. 


231 


the difference in a man’s feelings before and after this 
change?” 

“ The truly converted exclaims with the blind restored 
to sight,” answered Eubank, “ ‘Whereas I was blind , 
but now do I see!’ We no longer live unto ourselves; 
but, denying ungodly lusts, crucifying the pride of the 
heart, the pride of the eye, live unto God. There’s no 
mistaking it, sir; a man might as soon convince you, 
under the full blaze of the meridian sun, that it was mid- 
night, as a truly converted person that he was not a new 
creature. Religion ceases to be a matter of speculation 
with him ; it has become a matter of sense. ‘ God never 
enters the heart alone; light, love, joy, and serenity 
enter with the Holy Spirit.’” 

In short, Violet’s illness and Allen Eubank’s visit 
were blessed to Vane. The signal answer to prayer 
affected him deeply. From that night he began to study 
the Scripture and his own heart; faith soon became a 
vital, active principle, and the fruits were apparent in 
his life. 

Violet continued to convalesce, and she, too, often 
had long conversations with Eva on the subject of re- 
ligion. One morning, when they were alone, drawing 
her down on the pillow beside her, — 

“Eva,” she whispered, “your prayers for me have 
not been in vain ; my heart, I trust, is changed ; and 
should my life be spared, by God’s assistance, I hope to 
devote it to His service. Eva, I have thought and suf- 
fered much since I have been lying here ; and often, when 
you supposed me sleeping, I have been thinking of God 
and poor grandmamma,” she added, sobbing; and the 
offer of a crown, the possession of worlds, could not have 


282 


VIOLET. 


bestowed upon Eva the happiness those few whispered 
words imparted. 

“ Violet, dear Violet, death cannot part us now ; mine 
through all eternity!” 

Eva was weeping, too, for very happiness. Say not, 
ye splenetic, that earth can boast no happiness. Look 
at Eva’s radiant, tearful face, as, kneeling alone before 
God, she pours forth her gratitude to the hearer and 
answerer of prayer. Though too modest to imagine it, 
peculiarly was dear Eva adapted for woman’s beautiful, 
ever-present mission. Applaud the noble-hearted, burn- 
ing to encounter the dangers and privations of India or 
Africa : it is well ; but that is a greater, nobler heart, 
a truer missionary spirit, which meekly, cheerfully, 
thankfully struggles on patiently under domestic trials 
in the privacy of home, ever striving to win souls to 
Christ. Blessed, thrice blessed, they who so order 
their steps that they cause not a brother to sin; yet 
more blessed she who turneth many unto righteousness. 
Bright shall her starry crown of rejoicing shine with 
jewels — ransomed souls — the wealth of heaven. 

Reclining on the sofa in her simple cambric wrapper, 
so pale, so fragile, so penetrated with gratitude to God 
and man, Violet never was half as lovely or worthy of 
being beloved. Vane could have knelt and worshiped 
her, but for the new feeling at his heart — there must be 
no idol. Yet, oh! he did love her deeply, devotedly; 
not only for life, but for eternity. His love had assumed 
a different character; upon the heart of each was en- 
graven Holiness to the Lord; the love of the creature, 
purer, more exalted, was yet secondary. Fellow-gladia- 
tors, now, in life’s arena, they would hereafter mutually 


VIOLET. 


233 


support one another in combating the world, the flesh, 
and the devil. 

Under the shade of the old elm- tree, Yane and his 
little sister loved to read of fairy wonders. In Mrs. 
Seaton’s quiet boudoir they loved yet more, with Eva, to 
study the Bible. Dear Eva’s castle in the air was real- 
ized. Evening and morning Violet united with her in 
prayer and praise. Eubank had returned to his parish, 
where already his influence was apparent. Wrangling 
no longer about high and low church, they had begun 
to attend to the weightier matters of the law. 

******** 

Mrs. Ives and Meta were in town, and extremely kind 
during Violet’s illness; they were frequently with her; 
and, after passing an hour one morning, were about bid- 
ding good-by, when Clemence handed Violet a note. 
Running her eye hastily over it, extremely excited, beg- 
ging them to excuse her, she sat down immediately to 
answer it. Eva remonstrated, Mrs. Ives warned her it 
was imprudent thus to overtax her strength; but saying 
it was a matter of importance, Violet persisted. 

“Who was it from?” 

Evading Belle’s question, and blushing excessively, 
Violet sealed and dispatched her answer, and, soon 
after, complaining of headache, requesting the room 
should be darkened, she laid down ; a chill followed ; and, 
when Mrs. Seaton (who was out shopping") returned, 
she found her in a burning fever. Dr. Morgan was sent 
for; fortunately he happened to he at home, and came 
to them instantly. 

“What the devil has she been doing?” he asked, when 
he felt her pulse. “ By Heaven, if she had as many lives 
as a cat, she could not stand this! if she does not die, 
21 


234 


VIOLET. 


she’ll be an idiot;” and he walked the room with his 
hands in his breeches pockets, in the greatest excitement. 

As usual, the relapse proved worse than the first at- 
tack; hut Clemence protested Violet would not die — 
not she. 

“La pauvre child no die! Mon Dieu! she float in la 
mer ; she know noting one whole veak; and she no die — 
she no die now, nodar /” and, firm in the belief, the old 
woman did not wring her hands, or ask people what they 
thought. When everybody else watched the Doctor’s 
countenance, and hung upon his dictum, Clemence 
seemed suddenly to have conceived the utmost contempt 
for him. “He know noting , if he say she die!” and, 
shrugging her shoulders, she would walk majestically out 
of the room, muttering, “I know hater dan Ae.” 

Mr. Seaton, who from the first had shown a great 
deal of feeling and interest about poor Violet, grew su- 
perstitious, and believed more in Clemence than the Doc- 
tor. Between anxiety and watching, Mrs. Seaton and 
Eva were quite worn out ; so Mrs. Ives and Meta insisted 
upon taking turns in setting up at night. Vane wrote 
for Eubank. As the second crisis approached, how 
very, very long seemed the time ; yet each anxious heart 
stopped its beatings as the clock struck — it seemed to 
ring out the knell of death. Ere another hour she might 
be taken from them! Vane felt the question of life and 
death was for him, not for the sufferer ; to her the sum- 
mons would bring unspeakable joy ; to him a life of sor- 
row. But he was no longer frantic; he did not think 
he would die , or go crazy. Should she be taken, he be- 
lieved the promise, “As thy day, so shall thy strength 
be;” and, casting his care (and it was heavy) upon God, 
his heart grew calm ; and Dr. Morgan, who possessed 


VIOLET. 


235 


not the talisman of faith, wondered at the change in the 
lover’s conduct. The crisis came; it passed as before; 
Violet lived through it, hut so weak, so very feeble, they 
could only ascertain life was not extinct by the dew upon 
the looking-glass held to her lips. Thus she lay for 
hours ; again and again was the glass applied. Dr. Mor- 
gan asked for brandy ; she swallowed, and gradually re- 
vived to full consciousness; requested to receive the 
communion. 

“What would I not give to partake of it with her!” 
said Vane, when informed of her wish. 

“And why not?” asked Eubank. 

“I am not worthy.” 

“Alas! who is? Who worthy to drink of that cup? 
My friend, Christ died, not for the righteous , but for sin- 
ners; the blind, the halt, the maimed, from hedges and 
from by-ways, are freely bidden to this feast. If you do 
truly repent you of your sins, and by God’s assistance in- 
tend to lead a new life, and live in love and charity with 
all men ; if you are willing to pluck out the right eye, and 
cut off the right hand of offence, and, with the girl, in the 
beautiful allegory of the distant hills, are determined to 
cast from your bosom the beautiful lizard (the darling 
sin, be it what it may) which silences the voice of God in 
your heart ; if such is the state of your mind ; if you ac- 
cept salvation as a free gift, and seek from God strength 
to run the race set before you ; if your hope is stayed on 
Him alone whose death these symbols commemorate, 
for you is it prepared. 4 The whole need not a physi- 
cian.’ Come, then, I bid you, in God’s name, and you 
will find your soul strengthened and refreshed by it, as 
your body is by the bread and wine. That you are a 


236 


VIOLET. 


sinner , a poor, helpless sinner, is just what you should 
feel ; ay, in the words of the hymn — 

‘In my hand no price I bring — 

Simply to the cross I cling ; 

Just as I am, without one plea, 

Save that thy blood was shed for me, 

0 Lamb of God, I come.’ ” 

Vane bowed his head; silent, he seemed to be pray- 
ing. Mrs. Seaton sent to say everything was ready ; and 
calling to his aid all the firmness of his manly nature, 
Yane rose, pale as death, every muscle rigid, his lips 
firmly set. Neither spoke as they ascended the stairs. 
In the darkened room stood the table; the snowy 
cloth descending to the floor ; the silver goblet and bro- 
ken bread. Mrs. Seaton would have opened a window, 
hut Eubank prevented her ; he knew the service by heart. 
Supported by pillows, her hands clasped in prayer, a 
seraphic smile brightening her pale face, lay the dying 
girl — lovely even then, ay, more lovely, more touchingly 
beautiful than in the pride of health and buoyant spirits. 

At that solemn moment, standing on the threshold 
of eternity, into what a small space had the vanities of 
time dwindled ! Admiration, position, love — ay, love was 
sweet even then. An emanation from Deity, it bright- 
ens both worlds. The love of God, in his blessed Son, 
calmed every fear, and even with the Angel of Death 
hovering over her, sweet to the dying Violet was the 
love of those dear ones weeping around her bed. Yane 
could only trust himself with one glance; to him she 
seemed no longer his Violet, hut already an angel. Nail- 
ing on his knees by the bed, he buried his face deep in 
the clothes; but no groan, no sigh, told the agony of 


VIOLET. 


237 


the parting, though his form shook with the tremor of 
his frame. Every one kneeled, and in the deep, breath- 
less hush, Eubank alone standing, in a low, clear voice, 
spoke the words of consolation and blessing. Poor Cle- 
mence’s grief was so clamorous, Theodore was forced to 
take her from the room ere the service began. When it 
was over, and they rose from their knees, Violet em- 
braced and took an affectionate leave of each; the last 
was reserved for Vane. 

“God bless you, Harry!” she said, in a broken sen- 
tence, holding out her hand to him ; “ bless you for 
all.” 

Vane seized the hand, (his was as cold and clammy;) 
taking it between both of his, he kissed it again and 
again, pressed it to his heart and held it there. With 
an effort Violet bent forward, and, resting her head on 
his shoulder, whispered, — 

“ Forgive me, I have often pained you ; forgive me, 
Harry.” 

Vane caught her to his breast and held her there, 
close, close as those arms could gather her to him, im- 
printed one long, long kiss on the ashy lips, and, laying 
her gently down on the pillows, rushed from the room. 
And calm as a wearied babe she sank gently away. 
No, she is not dead; she yet breathes; and, though 
faint and irregular, her heart still beats ; the nose, too, 
is not pinched; her skin is warm. 

All that day Violet vibrated between life and death ; 
each moment they feared would be her last ; but it 
closed around the anxious watchers, and she still was 
with them. 

It is needless to follow her through the tedious 
stages of a second recovery. Her friends felt as if she 
21 * 


238 


VIOLET. 


was indeed restored to them from the dead. A second 
time had Yane’s prayer been heard, and now he ques- 
tioned not that such was the case. F our, at least, around 
that bed returned to “ give glory to God and, fearing 
more than ever excitement for the dear one, Belle and 
Eva agreed to enact the Dragon; and the golden apples 
of the Hesperides were not more faithfully guarded. 

One of the secrets of the dressing-room was Meta’s 
engagement ; Mrs. Ives and Meta were constantly with 
them ; and, one morning, when Violet was sufficiently 
convalescent to be again on the sofa discussing matters 
and things in general, Mrs. Ives came in. Evidently 
the dear old lady had a communication to make which 
she did not know exactly how to bring out. Calm and 
self-possessed, anything but nervous, — some doubted, in- 
deed, whether she had any nerves at all, — her manner 
quite excited the girls’ curiosity. 

“Will you be surprised,” she said, at last, “if I tell 
you Meta is to be married at once? This day week is 
Ernest’s birth-day, and he has set his heart upon mak- 
ing it the most important and happiest of his life.” 

Mrs. Ives’s nervousness was explained; she feared 
Violet would feel hurt that the young people had not 
postponed the happiest day of their lives until she was 
well enough to be present on the occasion. But Violet 
put her at ease, by assuring her she wished them all 
imaginable happiness; she thought Ernest’s desire very 
natural, and a very pretty idea — that of connecting the 
natural life and the life of love. Thus relieved, Mrs. Ives 
went on to tell them the young people’s plans. They 
were to live with her, and the wedding to be on Tuesday 
evening ; the last was Meta’s fancy. 

“From childhood they have always passed that even- 


VIOLET. 


239 


ing with me,” said the old lady ; “married in church, they 
will return home to a quiet Tuesday evening tea.” 

The fancy was carried out; the friends, among whom 
were the Seatons and Eva, were invited to meet them at 
church. But, save that there was a beautiful bouquet at 
each plate on the tea-table, (a delicate attention from old 
Mary,) and an iced cake in the centre, with a couple of 
sugar birds kissing, (a surprise planned and executed by 
Jane,) it was in all respects an old-timed Tuesday even- 
ing ; — no bridal gifts displayed, no charities curtailed to 
meet the extravagant outlay of the entertainment. As- 
sembled in the parlor of the old ivy house, a brighter 
glow of happiness on each dear familiar face, in deep, 
heartfelt gratitude, kneeling there, the little family 
offered up their thanksgivings. 

It was just the wedding Eva would have liked, but 
Mrs. Munson would not hear of it. She said his pa- 
rishioners had a right to be present at their minister’s 
nuptials; they had earned the right. Was not the Par- 
sonage filled with presents ? ( such as they were) and had 
not poor Phemy worn out two pair of gaiter boots trot- 
tin 2 back and forth to find out what would be most ac- 
ceptable? besides working a great, sprawling, worsted 
cat toilet pin-cushion ? To be sure, she might have found 
something better to work. Mrs. Munson always spoke 
of Miss Skimpton as poor Phemy ; and Miss Skimpton 
of Mrs. Munson, as Mrs. Munson, poor soul ; excellent 
woman, but so deluded! I really believe she thinks 
herself a Christian ! It was arranged that Mrs. Ives, 
Meta, and Ernest should be guests of Miss Mary’s; 
Belle and Violet stay at Elmwood; Mrs. Seaton, 
Theodore, and Vane have rooms at the Buck. The ex- 
citement of preparation was not confined to Elmwood, 


240 


VIOLET. 


though Minda and Jemima were hard at work there, 
and boxes and hampers constantly arriving from Phila- 
delphia. Everybody in any way connected with the 
church, or who had been at all civil to the Rector, which, 
as Eubank was a universal favorite, included pretty 
much the whole population of Abbotsford, was busy 
getting ready for the wedding. The girls, very busy in 
that cozy south room, assisting Eva; for, having been so 
much from home, many little things were to be finished. 
Joe thought proper to take a vacation on the occasion; 
and, as was always the case when he was at home, Dora 
was constantly there, and himself, as a natural conse- 
quence, forever at mischief. 

“ Belle and Meta, have you seen Joe’s flame?” she 
asked, the morning of the wedding day; “well, -she will 
be here to-night. Isn’t Miss Skimpton a sweet little 
creature, Eva? Don’t laugh, Joe; you know you think 
her a love!” 

“Dora, Dora!” and Joe held up both hands; “how 
can you tell such ?” 

“Oh, but doesn’t she lace!” continued Dora, as natu- 
rally as if she was telling the truth. “You should see 
her straining the aching clasp that binds her tiny zone, 
to get it to the size of mine. It’s not too large for Joe’s 
arm, though; Eva and I caught him one night with her 
in his arms; didn’t we, Eva? Don’t shake your head; 
you know we did. Such a complexion, such lilies, and 
roses, and sweet smiles, and such a darling little mouth !” 
and Dora contracted hers, and pronounced “ stewed 
prunes /” 

“Lilies and roses!” shouted Joe; “poor Phemy’s 
lilies and roses are dead — 

‘ Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, 

On the ancient banks of the Nile.’ ” 


VIOLET. 


241 


“Eva, Eva !” and Mrs. Munson rushed in and threw 
herself in a chair, looking as if she had lost every friend 
on earth; “the jelly is spoiled! totally ruined! That 
fool of a Minda, mistaking the demijohn, has seasoned it 
with whisky instead of wine; and so beautifully clear; 
transparent as amber. I had to send to Philadelphia 
for the feet ; it’s too late to get more.” 

She had talked herself quite out of breath. Eva sug- 
gested gelatin, but Mrs. Munson pronounced it stuff. 
Nothing tasted like calves’ feet. 

“I’ll tell you what to do, mother,” said Joe, laughing, 
as if it was a capital joke. He stood near her, resting 
with both hands on the chair before him. Extremely 
provoked, Mrs. Munson bent forward to give him a box 
on the ear; but Joe dodged, and her fist came down on 
the back of the chair with such force it almost skinned 
her knuckles. 

“Oh!” cried the incorrigible, seizing the hand and 
kissing the red knuckles, as grave as if he had never 
smiled, “Mother, crowd in spice; tipsify it with wine; 
if it’s as black as Minda, I’ll insure its being eaten; 
I’ve only to tell Mrs. Carr it was made by a Latin 
receipt, and was a favorite dessert of Scipio Afri- 
canus;” and, addressing himself to the girls, with — 
“Ladies, you must know, Mrs. Carr is the belle esprit 
of Abbotsford ; elevates her brows when she speaks ; 
misquotes authors ; has what she calls distrait and 
spirituel feelings; and talks of her nightcap slipping 
off of her head nolens volens , let her do what she will 
to keep it on.” 

“What shall I call it?” 

“Jelly Africanus,” suggested Dora. “I think I hear 
her asking for the receipt.” 


242 


VIOLET. 


“ Jelly Africanus it shall be. Dora, you’re worth 
your weight in gold!” Joe effected his purpose; he 
talked his mother fairly off ; she was too busy to hear 
him out. 

Pale with emotion, her sweet face shaded by the trans- 
parent veil floating around her, Eva was a beautiful bride. 
Her touching loveliness even inspired Theodore, who 
gallantly assured her she reminded him of a water-lily 
shrouded in mist. In a bran-new suit and brilliant vest, 
(a present from Eubank,) Jemmie Green, the happiest 
little boy in Christendom, in a corner, playing with his 
fingers, casts sheeps’-eyes at the company. Never will 
this evening be effaced from his memory. A gray- 
headed old man, Jemmie will tell his children and 
grandchildren of the minister’s grand wedding, and how 
the minister and Miss Eva talked to him, the good things 
they gave him, and the basketful they sent home to his 
mother. Truly was Eubank’s a labor of love. Living 
upon his private fortune, he spent his salary in charity ; 
and it was beautiful, at such a moment, to see him for- 
getful of self \ passing round among his people, with a 
smile and a kind word for every one. 

But I am before my story. The company had assem- 
bled ; the Bishop arrived ; everybody watching the door, 
and wondering why the bride did not appear. At last 
Eva and her bridesmaids entered ; but Dora, unlike the 
others, was dressed exactly like the bride, even to the 
veil and wreath of orange flowers. Whispering a few 
words to the Bishop, Joe quitted the group, and going 
up to his mother, who was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Wal- 
lingford on the sofa in one of the recesses, stooped and 
whispered something in her ear. The mother started 
back, fixed her eagle eyes — emitting sparks of anger — 


VIOLET. 


248 


upon him : you could have lit a cigar by her cheeks, had 
any one been courageous enough to venture it. But the 
presence of the Abbotsforders kept her wrath within 
hounds. Turning to the Wallingford’s, she said some- 
thing to them in the same low tone, uttering a little 
shriek. Mrs. Wallingford fainted; the husband looked 
surprised and troubled, but his attention was taken up 
with his wife. Dora ran to his assistance, and when the 
mother was resuscitated, taking Joe’s arm, joined the 
bride and groom. It was a double wedding. In order 
effectually to preclude opposition on the part of their 
parents, the young people had been married in Abbots- 
ford by the magistrate, and had but just returned, hav- 
ing kept the party waiting an hour. Laying aside her 
veil as soon as the ceremony was over, Dora walked about 
and talked as if nothing at all had happened ; declared 
the freak an economy she thought very praiseworthy 
these hard times, and quite a bright idea that, of mak- 
ing one entertainment suffice for two weddings. The 
boy-groom was in uproarious spirits. 

Dr. Seaton and Dora made friends at once, as the 
children say; and, already on the most intimate terms, 
when he ran her about losing her bridal gifts, she told 
him, — 

“She had taken the precaution to inform mamma, 
papa, and neighbor, that she was open to presents at 
any time.” 

Eva’s reception took place at the Parsonage the next 
evening. The company was as numerous as at the 
wedding; the parishioners, to a man, felt it incumbent 
upon them to welcome the bride to her future home. 
The sexton (Bob Nielle) with the rest, had joined the 
temperance society, and only drank now on rainy days 


244 


VIOLET. 


and at night. Miss Skimpton was heard to say — “The 
minister belonged to the people, and therefore they had 
a right to go over the house;” and so they did — in at 
one door and out at the other, from the garret to the 
cellar, in the pantry, in the kitchen, and in my lady’s 
chamber, looking at and discussing their various pre- 
sents, arranged in appropriate places, from the patch- 
work quilt (made by the sewing circle) on the bride’s 
bed, to the elegancies of the drawing-room. His pale 
face red as his new vest, Jemmie Green squeezed his 
way through the crowd, treading on everybody’s toes, 
and begging everybody’s pardon. 

“Ma sent you this, Miss,” he stammered, raising the 
lid of a small basket, containing a few fresh eggs, “and 
she told me to tell you, Miss, she prays God to bless 
you both;” and, unbuttoning his jacket, “Miss Eva, 
here’s a pullet I raised for you, Miss;” and the little 
fellow took the milk-white hen out of his breast and 
placed it in Eva’s hands. 

“Who would be without a people?” remarked Eubank 
to Vane, looking around at the happy faces.” 

“Every one to his taste,” replied the lawyer, smiling; 
“I confess, though there are some great rascals among 
them, I prefer my clients; by-the-way, I was just think- 
ing of Carry Simmons’s gas-lit reception, and contrast- 
ing it with this ; it was the tamest thing of the kind I 
ever was at.” 

“Different, as I trust, will be our lives,” said the 
Rector. 

“ I hope so,” remarked Vane; “it is whispered Carry 
is very jealous, and Ashton as neglectful; a sad pros- 
pect they have before them!” 

“Look at my little wife!” (Eubank spoke as if he 


VIOLET. 


245 


loved to pronounce the word;) “does she not seem 
happy, though she must be tired to death, shaking rough 
palms?” 

Worn out indeed, Eva was, and delighted when, hav- 
ing partaken of the refreshments, “ their people” were 
all gone, calling her the bride, as if there had been no 
other. Dora forced her down in a comfortable low chair, 
(a handsome purple-velvet — one of two presented by 
Mrs. Munson;) “ Joe, get a footstool; Doctor, a cup of 
coffee, if you please, for Eva.” 

A pleasant evening it was, that first of her wedded life 
in the Parsonage. Violet and Harry Vane, were to he her 
guests for a few weeks ; and sweetly did Eva acquit her- 
self as the mistress of the house. The next morning, 
after breakfast, when the gentlemen were gone for a long 
walk over the hills, taking the “ Southern Housewife” 
with them, Eva and Violet went into the kitchen, where 
everything looked new and nice, and made a pudding 
for dinner, which, of course, was pronounced perfectly 
delicious, though Eva forgot the sugar, (one of the chief 
ingredients.) They had determined upon old-fashioned 
early hours, consequently, had a long afternoon before 
them ; so Eubank proposed a ride, and Eva and Violet 
brought their work into the library, and sitting there, 
chatted as in old times. It was a very cozy room, fitted 
up with book-cases and large chairs, a study-table, and 
some et ceteras not usually found in studies ; for, as the 
Parsonage was small, it was intended also for a family 
snuggery, when the young people were alone ; for Allen 
told Eva he would like to have her there even when he 
was studying and writing his sermons, — it would be so 
pleasant to look up and see her, and have her listen to 
22 


246 


VIOLET. 


anything which particularly interested him, or which he 
found any difficulty in bringing out in his. sermon. 

Their chairs were by the open window, the sun sink- 
ing, the golden light streaming into the room and on 
the sweet faces watching the glowing sky. 

“ Violet,” said Eva, “it has always seemed to me that 
the thought of earth to busy day belongs, and evenings 
like this, fraught with human love, bringing before us all 
dear to the heart — the living and the dead — past plea- 
sures and past sorrows mingling with the present now , 
while the hushed holy hour of night has ever appeared 
to belong to God. The busy insect hum passed away, 
and coming darkness shadowing forth the long, long, 
dreamless sleep of death. Oh ! Violet, pray that I may 
be kept from idols, that my present happiness, my love 
for Allen, may not draw my heart from its Maker;” and 
tears trembled in the young wife’s eyes as she spoke. 

Eva had risen, and was leaning against the window, 
looking out at the scene before her. Violet got up and 
went to her, and as she fondly drew her to her, whis- 
pered, — 

“Eva dear, He who guides that little bird, cleaving 
its bright way through those rosy depths far, far up 
there, looking like a snow-flake on a rose’s breast, He 
will, as you have often said to me, direct your steps 
through life, if you trust, as heretofore, in His unfailing 
love.” 

“Eva, Eva! come here; I want you!” cried Eubank, 
from the flower-garden; and, as she passed out at the 
glass door that led to it, Vane entered. Eor the first 
time since he had risked his life in saving hers, Harry 
and Violet were alone together. 


VIOLET. 


247 


Little remains to be added. The only mystery to be 
explained, is that of the note, which was from the son 
of Mrs. Irving’s former agent, informing her that his 
father, believing himself to be dying, would restore the 
sum embezzled, provided she would pledge herself never 
to disclose the transaction. It was the false entries 
made to conceal this fact which caused the confusion 
that baffled the executor’s acuteness. 

That evening was the happiest of Vane’s life. His 
boyhood’s dream was realized; Violet loved him as a 
heart like hers must love, to bestow her hand ; and ere 
many months had passed, in that once prayerless home, 
morning and evening, did the grateful thanksgiving of 
two earnest hearts ascend unto Him who “ ordereth all 
things well” 


THE END. 











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